extant creature
to have successfully
upended the belief
in her own body,
she alone knows—
to catch the wild quiet
and keep it
is harder
than it seems at first.
And perhaps,
to achieve this,
she has spent her life picturing
a breath
without limits,
a breadth
with no length,
a burst far beyond
the bounds of sound and color
too haphazard
to ever have been
intended.
But more likely,
she has learned
in the monochrome fire
of repetition
how to forge
a more effortless noise
with neither the desire
nor the need
to make another.
