our bodies, these jars

A jar only knows 

how empty it is 

when it begins

to fill again—  

and I hold 

onto it and look upwards,

allowing the droplets to 

shoot like meteorites 

from the scar above my eyebrow 

to the dimple on my cheek, and 

I pull on my blue 

jeans with the rip through the belt loop 

just to remember 

the smell of sunlight 

embracing the grass 

in the midst 

of what cannot be 

only eleven 

days until spring— 

and no matter my attempt, I 

cannot capture 

black and white photographs  

when looking at the 

remains of golden clouds 

when I remember the way you 

once had breath 

but now your lungs are

empty as though 

they are waiting

to be filled again