It is 4:53 in the morning and the-multiverse-you is sleeping somewhere
(Perhaps held in the arms of her beloved)
…she does not know about the foster children, or the loss, the things you use to distract you
From the sound of being cracked open
a meal, a primitive marine creature–a crab, a lobster, a clam
The oral surgeon calls the missing piece of you by the kind of nickname you might use for a lovable but naughty child—that little stinker or cuss or rascal
Only, the-multiverse-you tells it as though it were a puzzling but mildly discomfiting dream
No mention, no hint even
Of global dishevelment and chaos on the planet where she sleeps,
untouched
As you fiddle with various words for comfort to mask the pain
In all the broken places.
Carrying Light 