From the hollow where there should be
mother/father/lover/song/child/pet/friend/book/nature
all the names for God
I unexpectedly wretched.
That which tried to fill instead clogged, choked
released in spasms, transmuted into snot, tears,
fluids and not-quite solids, textures and colors
indistinct. One needn’t be poet to find metaphor,
needn’t be seeker to feel gratitude:
swept floor, unstained porcelain, smooth seat,
fresh-washed sunflower-embossed
towel to cradle my splotched face.
More hollow now, space enough for ease
I have perhaps glimpsed something of the Divine
this place holy when I drop to my knees.