SHAPE OF SOULS

That one is crumpled like a scrap of paper she thought she didn’t want, but changed her mind, and salvaged, smoothed out as well as she could.

His is small and bouncy, no one can catch it– it’s slippery, elusive– a transparent glitter-filled superball.

That one is thin, lean, hard, strong, a wing bone. It moves swift, deliberate, no time, no flesh, to waste.

This one: an empty flower pot stained with moss. This one: a formal garden with no weeds, nothing out of place.

Here is one large and welcoming, wide, soft, slow: a sofa soul that holds between the plushy cushions secrets, like lint and scattered change.