poem

 Coffins

Every morning I lie down in a hole 

In the ground in the shape of someone

Else's body, not comfortably, for it’s

Far too small but it gives me a renewed

Appreciation for all the other spaces

Where I seem to belong.

(Not like there’s many of those)

There’s no claustrophobia in the womb.

Fetuses are allowed to presume

The universe will always adjust 

To the shape of their own bodies 

Which is why newborns, arms and legs

Flailing, always appear to be falling.

One of the weaknesses of freedom

Is the absence of walls and ceilings

Defining the limits of existences

Which explains the persistent

Popularity of coffins

Even amongst the living.

7/20/26