The Hollow That Held Everything

The back is turned
not from shame,
but because some grief
cannot bear a face.

Where the spine should speak,
there is a hollow
a dark chamber within
where something once lived
before it was made to leave.

The hands hold the head
as if they alone can keep
the darkness from spilling
all the way through.

The body folds inward,
a parenthesis around absence,
a sentence that forgot
what it meant to say
mid-breath.

Below, the earth receives
no judgment,
only the quiet knowing
of ground that has carried
far heavier weight.

We all carry such hollows.
Most of us simply turn away,
sitting with our backs to the light
so no one can measure
their depth.

Object number

013.049