He tried to fill the hole – find
the center of what fell out of him
fifteen minutes before midnight
on the day he was born.
It was his benign tumor. A sickness
that wouldn’t kill him. At night,
before sleep entered his room,
before twilight clouds brushed
his eyes closed, he’d reach
inside and wonder why he was
made this way. A mutation with an
unnatural lightness of being.
His condition went undetected except
when the wind blew through him,
causing his shirt to billow like a sail,
and a high-pitched whistle to emit from
within him. A sound only a dog’s ears
To himself, he was invisible:
tissue paper thin, weightless and
lacking substance. Most days he
felt he wasn’t even standing on
earth. But he wanted to.
He theorized that a heart must hold the
universe and weigh ten thousand
pounds. It is a heart that keeps
feet on the floor.
Nothing mattered to this untethered,
floating pilgrim but finding a cure
for his gaping hole. A yearning he
did not acknowledge until the day
he became firmly rooted in her.