There is a cavity in most great things:
doughnuts have holes and memory has spaces
for all the terrible to fall through;
terrible here is synonymous for
lost puppies, loose change, greedy meetings
in the backs of foggy cars
that are part metal part secret.
The hum of the vent is the only
friend, in it we whisper
and shout the delights of the day.
Our own voice echoes back, singular.
The day is all there is in the mind of us;
there was open, during and after,
we have not yet learned to sew our sleeves
to the past and call it hindsight.
We hear ripped tears of cotton and promptly print Missing Persons
posters on the backs of cereal boxes.

But there are cavities in great things,
the simple necessary air to settle into and call home –
this is no abducted child or invaded thriller,
it’s a Friday night at the movies and local diner,
where we shake hands with Patty and remember distantly,
plugging the holes with frothy laughter. It bubbles over
the top and spills over the rim
and I think of a raining Grand Canyon.

I think what if rock met rain met deep empty space,
who would we meet in digging to the core of
living things? Well,
I think I’d see

me in a ripped dress holding my lost puppy and
your hand; I’d see Roman Gods fighting against creatures
of old; my dog Barker would be leading the troop of werewolves;
and there’d be no great loss,
only the fullness of breathing whole.

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Priyanka Yap is a student living in Singaore. She majors in Sociology, enjoys the horror genre, and is very much a dog person. She does not, however, own one.

Photo: Jennifer Rogalla