To lack the land on which to spill my shadow
grows this thing inside me
that is an absence of a thing.
To think my meat and skin could be filled so
or perhaps emptied so.
I did not know my capacity for absence
found through this want to be vessel
for these lovers these creatures
of common flight whose language I barely hear.
To comb their shadows into my fur
to carry their shadows into the sun
this thing inside me grows
this thing that is sacrifice.

-Robin LaMer Rahija