somewhere under all this
not me
beyond all the stalling
stammering sputtering
half-started never-finished


is me the
weighted blanketed disappeared me
the girl in the snowball bush
dirt floor and a broomweed broom
making up stories
peeking through the branches
hiding out


The theater is the temple, never more so than when it’s empty. Waiting. Resting.


It meets you at the door
follows you down the hall
in the grey, half-light.

This is loneliness met with warmth, company,
and a word comes rushing at you,
illuminating you, describing you –


Churning through the waves wondering
how to be here, get back here, how to stay here,
how to be here, how to be whole, here

for Jack Hunsucker
& Scott Latham



About Vicki Caroline Cheatwood

Writerly. Rebooting. Evolving. Searching for great chicken salad.
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