cored

i went to the well and saw jesse

floating there

her eyes frozen on the concrete sky above

arms splayed at her side gently

lapping in the blackness

her eyes were stone gray

i went to the well to perform my ablutions

but jesse was floating there

she was cored

a sliver in the murk

i too feel hollow inside

a stitch of guilt

i went to the well and saw jesse

in an act of transcendence so absolute

so pure in that darkness

that i will not speak of it again

i went to the well and won’t

return

“Writing is work. It’s also gambling. You don’t get a pension plan. Other people can help you a bit, but ­essentially you’re on your own. Nobody is making you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.”

— Margaret Atwood