Poetry: Rebecca Ochoa

Speaking to an Empty Room
 
Loss
loops around nothing,
like the skin
of a bubble,

slowly sighing full.

Like reaching your hand into
an empty pocket
and discovering

there is no cloth,

or reading the obituary of
someone you lost
somewhere

in a maize field,
his green eyes fading beneath the dusty
earth.

Hear that soft, strong beat of wings
as the flocks of birds fly by - I

am lost,
afraid of the dead,
mirror surface of water;
unseen

rippling eyes that spread out to nothing
like heat, 
            like time, 
                        like longing
that have no shore.