I am become the burrow–root-crack
deepening under concrete, swallowing rain
like the shattered fiberglass tub we threw into the gulley
& Memaw’s chipped saucer, and the echo
from Sister’s barn-loft leap.
Let them think me drowned.

I am become the page. The blank
between words in a text thread—
that hum where meaning was. I let voice bleed
into the machine. No need
to answer. I am become answerless.

I am become the static
promises, pressed hands
to cold glass—until they leave.
A wrong number ringing in an empty room,

I am become the thing that feeds
on silence: the TV’s bluelight burned in the retina,
the blackberries left to ferment in the bucket.
Even the air has forgotten
my name.

I am become the not-wild,
not-tame—ghost
that ghosts itself—thing
that breathes through cracks
in the foundation, that drinks the dark
like water drinks the scrubby bank
of a canopied creek: slipping.

Running. I am become
the unobserved. Free
of every tender
& surveilling eye.