There is a disquiet
in the core of me.

it stretches over my lungs,
a cotton sheet
that tightens
at the corners.

and nothing feels comfortable Here.
My roots trail dry behind me,
dripping with soil
where I’ve ripped them from the Earth.

and each step
has yet
to offer release.
My heart, a thing twisted
in the constricting grip that is connection.
Over and over,
everything remembered tying together
into the new.
Into images that I must swallow,
with a parched throat
of something gone.