My heart is not a cup. My open
palms are more like hooks for sorrow.
Sometimes at night, my heart stops
beating, fills with darkness, poisoned
by its own resistance. Nevertheless,
I am tired of wanting to ease my body
like a worm resisting expulsion from
its cocoon, like a fetus fighting
to stay within its water. In summer,
the light reaches in through curtains,
an unknown hand, the shape of a cup.