Your original wound is not what you think it is.
You’ve been carrying the wrong burden
although you’ve grown fond of what you carry.
What’s tender and aching
is in the nucleus of the universe,
a place stolen and sought out
at the same time.
The schism happened.
No one can say when, only that it did
at the bottom of that fault line
what you lost is healed every moment,
every gap of a second in the negative space
between words and light.
The deepest wound is the one
that was carried for you
on the shoulders of a continuum
from the condensed hydrogen of the Sun
to the soil underneath Jerusalem.
Cortney Collins is a poet whose work has been published by South Broadway Ghost Society and 24hr Neon Mag. She has poems forthcoming in the Devil’s Party Press anthology, What Sort of F@*#ery is This? She lives on the Eastern Plains of Colorado with her cat, Pablo.