She Considers the Dimensions of Her Soul

The shape of her soul is a square.

She knows this to be the case

because she often feels its corners

pressing sharp against the bone

just under her shoulder blades

and across the wings of her hips.

At one time, when she was younger,

she had hoped that it might be a cube,

but the years have worked to dispel

this illusion of space, so that now

she understands: it is a simple plane,

a shape with surface, but no volume—

a window without a building, an eye

without a mind.

                        Of course, this square

does not appear on x-rays, and often,

weeks may pass when she forgets

that it exists. When she does think

to consider its purpose in her life,

she can say only that it aches with

a single mystery, for whose answer

she has long ago given up the search—

since its question is a word whose name

can never quite be asked. This yearning,

she has concluded, is the only function

of the square, repeated again and again

in each of its four matching angles,

until, with time, she is persuaded

anew that what it frames has no

interest in ever making her happy.