Today I did nothing but covet.
My mother raised me to take
what she could not
but that only bred an animal
of want. I still cannot have half
the things she needed and a
hollowness is cupped inside
wet and scraped by melon spoon
tender
from the scooping.
How does the moon feel, so
cratered and pocked? Could the
hollow spaces just be, not to be
filled, holding only space?
Jessie Zechnowitz Lim is a florist by day and poet by night living in California on unceded Ohlone land. She holds an MA in Art History. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Chestnut Review, California Quarterly, FEED, The Ekphrastic Review, Litbreak Magazine, The Bold Italic, and Mother Mag.