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i look around this mousehole of a home
and find it silly how soothing it is,
this solitude by choice.
so absurd to revel in not needing, being needed—satiating
when for so long a body has felt the ache of all creation:
for connection and a sweet coercion into community,
a bitter dependency on love
and the brutal impressions to be made on others...
but this stormy sky makes evening darkest, dearest night and
pulls me closer to my own best friend, this
writhing strength here
that i keep hidden,
heralded, and locked
in my intimating mousehole of a womb—
the vacancy of its loud, loud quiet so
warming, close, so known,
and i think
how silly it is, so soothing
to be alone.
Julia Englund
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