Interstellar

The cleaving of a rib-spreader
The space between inhale and exhale.
The wraiths and revenants that inhabit this body
Are scurrying about, letting loose their
Subsonic moans.

They are anxious, like I am, as
their hiding places dwindle.
Another breath, another tear falls like
A drop of black ink swirling
Into a midnight ocean.
Not separate. Not alone.
What is it to be a thing and of a thing?

No longer just a container for unfeelings,
This body is a magic spaceship for my
True purpose—same as for all of us—
Journeys to our inner cosmos and back,
And living to tell the tale.