The final rope of sunlight
disappears from sight
as a thousand-pound boulder
seals off
the entrance to the temple.
My fellow-travellers moan and wail.
One woman pulls her sweater tight around her shoulders
rocking back and forth
even though the heat is stifling.
Central to our journey
is an emptied-out body
we now fill with our stories and despair.
I lie against the caved-in chest
murmur about a house filled with jealousy,
sisters smiling at dinner parties,
immaculate dresses and intricate hairdos
scratching, clawing, hissing,
once the guests leave.
Overflowing,
our creature sits up,
gives voice to all the things we never knew how to say.
Bitch, leave me alone, you cannot borrow my Shakira CD, I don’t want to sit next to you during a twelve-hour car trip to Italy, why do we even have to pretend to like each other?
We stare at its supreme anger
ugliness rarely allowed to exist
and applaud
with abandon.