O shrine of no miracle
offering brood blood 
unblessed into wine 
on a shitty Friday night, 
praise be for no godseed 
bedding down in your pink tuck. 
No alien kick, no rabbit thump, 
no scratchy whir and hum. 
No cards from anybody.
I’m eating for one—
and you’re a cold bowl of nothing, 
my favorite unlunch.  
Dark cubby, how many times 
have I tried to scare loose 
some ghost of self from you?
Monthly you hushed my terror,
and once, I scraped the shush 
from your pried mouth.
No cry came out. 
Shook pocket, you’re all mine now 
and forever—a joyful void I carry
like the lightest clutch, 
not one bright penny inside it.