Today, I wondered
whether death is a womb as well—
whether anyone can fit the vastness of who they become
here
into such a small space again.
Perhaps though, the space is not so small.
 
I cannot say what the light on the table means,
Just that its voice sounds warm.
Its hands are soft.
 
Friend, I say,
do you know
your beautiful, beautiful name?
neither do I.