There is a room inside
where only I can travel,
a room that is always
and never the same.
When I find myself there,
sometimes it is so quiet I hear
the space between stars.
Sometimes, I meet
a wisdom beyond what
I could ever know.
And sometimes I hear
right through a story
I have been telling myself.
There is such delicious
lightness then, as if a cloak
made of bedrock has been lifted
from my being. How did I
not know I was wearing a cloak
made of stone? And how many
other layers am I wearing—
layers as imperceptible as air
and layers dense as lead—
layers waiting until I’ve grown
enough for them to be shed?