The world pulls today
beyond the moon,
beyond the cries of morning crickets,
long before my lashes can remember,
it demands
in the cacophony of cars
already rushing.
Time has already left.
Suppose
I pull, too
with this intake of air—
full and held,
skull-deep
then down to the stillness
in my throat, stirring this chamber
with a reminder that no permission
is needed
for my voice to belong,
winding down to my chest,
side-sliding itself through crevices
of rooms upon rooms
stuffed with bouldering weights, just to show
there is space
just enough
for my fingers to tuck into,
nudging, then wedging,
until a nudge becomes a push—
out
the overstayed
for just
a little more room.