the body remembers what the mind can’t fathom–
the panic and scramble in falling–and the cause, 
oh it doesn’t forget the cause, the horror 
of the sudden void, a severing, leaving 
your love like a silver filament leaking out–
floating floating against blank space, unanchored.
but the body also knows to open
your eyes each morning without a Sun–
if not to eat, then to breathe and move and sleep–
small steps until your feet remember dance.
and despite recalling, on all fours roaring warning
in your ears, gripping your gut with unfounded fear,
the body remembers love’s warmth and allows 
this little star to tug you into orbit–