Hollow

Reading on my twin bed,

pink flowered spread,

book open to last page,

afternoon shadows tall and thin.

Muted noise beyond my door—

cupboard slam, radio hum,

pots clatter, brother sister play pretend.

I listen,

quiet,

yearning, the story

that filled me now

fading and I wish

to snatch it back and live

there, where words fill

pages and characters know

and say and do,

in a story that feels

so much more alive

than this 12 year old life

on this bed

in this house

with my emptiness gaping open

like a fish mouth

like a gray November morning

like a dark cave too hollow

to enter.

[Copyright 2005 Theresa Jarosz Alberti; do not reproduce without permission]