She Will Move

She will move toward nothing in that isolate boat.

Move toward nothing in the boat made of

pills and powder, dirty water.

Move toward nothing in the boat made of

men who use her empty rooms.

Move toward nothing

in the boat made of

black air, dog eared nights, wretched twine.

Move toward nothing

in the boat made of

curdled milk, kitchen farce.

Only the cold peaks of the ocean ahead, behind.

Light comes and goes.

Supplies run dry.

She drinks salt water from her hands.

The others, who are rowing,

plead with her to stop,

swear they see a finger of land

stretched in the distance.

She cannot see it.

Only a hole ripped through the horizon,

which is where she has always wanted to go.