Meteorite

if I could, I would be a quiet meteorite on an echoless path

sinking through shards of French press coffee

hidden, brown, safe.

Instead, I retreat underground, hold my breath,

as the front door creaks open

with the haq of sunshine entering darkness

the voices begin

did you eat? how was your day? what news? shall I comb out your

curls? upsize your clothes?

my feet drum

to a primitive rhythm

to shake off the dust of duty

and most especially

this pointless gust that swooshes in daily

and settles on

cratered cartographers like me who

scratch twisted maps of the soul

when

I would like nothing better

than to drown in the milky ocean

of a reclining god from whose navel

new lotuses

spring