The Absence of a Heart Leaves an Hourglass Shape

Overnight, she is different.
Now she breathes only sand and salt,
clouds of talcum and dust.
Her chest is a hole
dug in a desert dune.
She inhales to fill it,
exhaling only shadows.
The absence of a heart
leaves an hourglass shape.
It takes so much time
to replace the missing weight.

Tears spent, she ignores thirst.
She doesn’t remember food.
She closes tight as a seed,
storing herself for later.
She no longer craves even air.
But, oh—
the possibility of lightning,
like a crack in the purple-black sky,
the sweet chance of rain!
She dreams of flowers
like hundreds of crimson mouths,
parting their lips
among cactus thorns.

by Christine Boyka Kluge