Who can know for how long you’ve been falling—
until the vastness, dim and spare,
discretely legible and worn with use,
is no longer referred to by its real name.
You were drawn in, lungs first. Of course you sank.
Perceptibly finite, repurposed, just
like everything else. But all those who sink
were at first needed. Not your fault if the
blood is too warm, and love too circular
to last you. If only there had been less
of it all. Some day, you keep thinking,
you too will arrive at its deep deep core.
Maya is a poet, performer and daydreamer who probably spends too much time thinking about snacks. She grew up with two languages and cultures and her poetry and art attempts to process the complex emotions that are part of being a person. She works in a bookstore where, to much joy and chagrin, she finds at least ten things she wants to read every day.