The Ones I Love

They’ve always called me Ox. Now, some of them don’t. The moon raises cities in us as we go. One of us became nothing—a rookery of stars that smash-landed in the darkness. I don’t sleep well anymore. A glass bulb sits in the back of my throat. I speak in ideas about how to bury the dead. I speak in moons and earth. There is no antidote for the amount of silence I’ve swallowed. I’m as big as the world. I carry every sentence into the distance.