O shrine of no miracle offering brood blood unblessed into wine on a shitty Friday night, praise be for no godseed bedding down in your pink tuck. No alien kick, no rabbit thump, no scratchy whir and hum. No cards from anybody. I’m eating for one— and you’re a cold bowl of nothing, my favorite unlunch. Dark cubby, how many times have I tried to scare loose some ghost of self from you? Monthly you hushed my terror, and once, I scraped the shush from your pried mouth. No cry came out. Shook pocket, you’re all mine now and forever—a joyful void I carry like the lightest clutch, not one bright penny inside it.