Not an Object

Annette Benedetti, Poetry

I am
I am not
I am
I am not an object.

I pull back my ribcage and pluck a red
pulsing stone from inside of my…
inside of me.

I’d call it an offering, but

My heart was once called cold
even though it burns white
and produces blue heat that
looks like rage.

But it is not rage
it is not anger
in any of its shades or forms.

This is my sorrow
This is my sadness
This is my longing for something lost
And it comes in fits and waves
like the waves on a horizon drawn by the sea.

You see

It’s all about fire and water
and what lives inside.
It’s all about longing and waiting
for something that will never arrive

Because there are missing pieces and holes
that I can’t even name.

So I sit white knuckled and waiting
and waiting
and waiting.

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