negative space

 

These gaping holes inside my soul are in
the shape of all the longings and
the griefs that made their silhouettes
and carved out their dimensions – like
the inverse of a sculpture. Like a mold
of what is missing. And you trace it
with your fingers in the chisel nicks, you probe
the undermining and the hyperkeratoses on the margins,
you explore the fraying edges. I am shamed
that in the center, all I have is fabric scraps
and granite flakings  and a chronic,
weeping, slightly granulating wound, until
you rest your hand, a gentle blessing, on
this lost, negative space
and you say
lovely. It is lovely
like the love and loss that made it. It is
faithful to their lines and
to their margins, it is bold
the way a girl with gambling soul
sells all she has and buys a field in which she hopes
she will find treasure is so brave. When she digs up
that buried talent, it is
beautiful and so is its potential.
She leaves shovel, she leaves hole unfilled
and off she goes with what she has uncovered,
to invest it, to discover or to waste it – she
has no certainty, no guarantee, nothing but the courage
and the recklessness, the leaping without sight, the hole
unfilled she leaves behind – a hole worth more treasure. It says
someone saw potential, clung to hope, and
unearthed power. You say,
blessed are the gaping holes,
and lovely are the stories that they tell.

Image courtesy of Pixabay