Waste

Corinna Underwood

The light spilling over the window sill
reminds me to turn over
before I see it pool in the sheets
where emptiness lies.
Each morning I am beside myself.
Shadows are newly poured
around my face and body
filling all crevaces
and hardening to crust.
Afternoons only defer nightfall.
Movements are matchsticks
snapping with flintless tinderness
until I splinter.
And from these pieces
grow thornflowers for a desert.


-C. Underwood