I imagine it a place like death. Wholly separate, disinterested.
You are not interested in me. Yearning, affection—
these are living things. Like the dead, you’re free of them.
You cannot hear me. Or these thoughts rise around you
like soap bubbles in sunlight, (or whatever’s there that makes
the edges shine), then disperse. Waking, home after
surgery, I got up to cross the living room. The nightgown
pooled down my skin. That crossing was an open field.
I felt my lower belly tug, incisions trying
to reopen, cuts where tools had sunk to see
if the rooms were infested or needed repair. I felt
all this, but I didn’t care. Like you, it was outside
of me. Like these words, round, but thin as breath,
a decorative, meaningless syntax. They can’t touch
your endless peace, your lack of need to be.