Holes in a Life

A formless life. But enough self-knowledge

To feel the holes in it. It’s a torn amoeba

Flowing round its own gaps,

Blindly rolling its edges in, in,

Trying to enfold itself.

 

‘Big holes? two-dimensional, like sliced cheese?’

A helpful friend is fascinated

By the hopelessness of the details:

‘Or small, moussey holes, sort of shot through

Everywhere, like bubbles in soufflé? Spam?’

 

No. Wrong map. It’s like asking if you are loved.

Only one person will give the right answer,

Holding up one hand, not two, as the measure;

"This much". The outer edge so far, and near,

It flies around the world

And back, to the back of that same hand.

 

Katherine Pierpoint

Done