What is the shape of your hurt
and the sound of the breath that moves through it?
Where in your body does it vibrate? Sing?
Pulse with its own heartbeat?
Is it restrained and leaked
with a weak, fricative braking – or
is there a silent, momentary collision of wills before the explosion?
How do you send your hurt into the world?
Do you pack it a lunch – a tidy sandwich
buttered on both sides and tucked into a brown bag
with a folded napkin – or do you send it off with a pledge,
slamming a shot glass on the counter?
Does it make a scene in the doorway of your throat?
How do you console the needful infant of your thoughts?