Andrea Janelle Dickens

FEELING THE PULSE IN

my stomach, I lie – stiller, still –
letting the wind trickle over me. Letting my
heart’s contractions

run through me like a ripple
in a pond.
The leaves swagger overhead. I’m replaying

those texts you sent last night: each word
parts of a life you’re trying to shield
yourself from.

The grass pricks my arms, sun
warms my face as I lie awake
listening for nothing.

Sometimes
I can admit things only touch
my edges, not me. There’s a void filling
my body when I close my eyes.