An Empty House Is a Debt

There is a house in me. It is empty. I empty it.

Negative space: the only native emptiness there is.

There is

An alarm goes off. It goes on and on. When the alarm

drifts to different parts of the room,

I realize, that alarm is the sun.

And there is no one who does not need,

never an empty seat. And the blind one,

he does not find a place. There is a god in him

helping him to need himself.

A mother sticks a spoon into my chest,

which is an empty bowl, actually,

so the spoon lands quickly

and loudly. Heartbreak in the heart! she says.

When you love someone

more than you’ve ever known you could, it is

a good thing, except for the terrifying

realization that one day there comes

a parting.

I reach inside my empty house: as far as I’m allowed to go.

I reach outside my empty house: as far as I’m allowed to go.

Or don’t love me, what do I care?

I am tired of feeling guilty; I am tired of running up a tab.

I want to run outside with a sack of huge penises on my back

—into the empty houses of ex-lovers, of mothers, birds

screaming out my name.

A human terrifies.

A human is someone who becomes terrified, and having become terrified,

craves an end to her fear.

This craving carves a cave.

What is a maze if there is nothing to find in the maze.

I find myself angry at nothing.

My lovers bow before me as though before Medusa.

Tell them you love them. See what they say.

Or say it to yourself, and see what you say.

When you love someone

more than you’ve ever known you could, it is

a good thing, except for the terrifying

realization that one day there comes

a parting.