The sun rises.
Coiled up in the womb
With my fist shut tight,
Until shut eyes open wide
To see the bright blue bowl-ed sky.
Slipped out of my very first bowl,
Into the swing of arms,
Served all the question marks.
From the hollow bowls of bones,
To the scooped shells on the shore,
And the eyes watching them, growing sore.
I see the hollow everywhere,
These bowl-ed stories we tell,
I see the hollow everywhere,
In each bowl I ever held.
Memories pooled in the cupped hands,
Waiting to spill.
The two sore bowls
Are now asleep,
Listening to the silent ringing lullaby.
Taking their last breath
On the final swing of arms.
Open eyes, sealed shut.
Laid straight into the earth,
With my open, cupped hands
Holding nothing but dust.
In the other half of this Earth's sphere,
The last bowl has arrived.
The sun sets.
It all sums up
In the hump of a question mark.
