Nutshell

After the hallways are quiet

and whoever is shouting outside dies down—

I might, late one night, after throwing away my nutshells,

when the moon is an empty, white hole

and my room is dark, apart from the seat of pale, blue light

where my naked, ball-shaped-body sits aglow in the window

between the refrigerator & bathroom door—

heels against buttcheeks on the cool, wood floor

and arms around knees in the shape I was before

being born—I might hum & forget to breathe

until I whisper to myself— “whole.”

By Joshua Wren