The spaces you leave, I fill.
The crevice in the conversation,
the hint of pause for breath,
I flow into it, claiming it, taking what is left,
what you didn’t want.
I dream of vastness, of my mother, of the ocean.
Of a ship in the abyss, of being all you can see.
The sea is abundance, I carry her stories with me; all the lessons she ever learned,
I float them in my ebb,
access them in my dreams,
reach for them in the dark corners carved for me
by my sisters before,
who tried to catch space, too.
Yes, there is very little air left for me.
Yes, I am but a sliver on the radar.
But isn’t it true, that it only takes the smallest of drops
to carve into a stone, if the drops come steady,
if the drops won’t stop.
That is to say, I’ve been wondering;
have I tinged your veins?
Dug under your skin?
Am I swimming in your blood?
Am I echoing in your brain?
Do you paddle and paddle?
Against the current of my tide?
Are your arms aching, aching, aching?
Am I all you can see?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kiana McCrackin is a writer, a photographer (with a BFA in professional photography from The Brooks Institute of Photography), a cloud gazer, a tree lover, and a mama. Kiana is most interested as a writer and artist in the experience of being a human/woman/mother/wife and the emotions that come with those roles. She grew up in Alaska, has lived all over the west coast, and currently resides in South Dakota where she is discovering what the wind has to say. Follow her on Instagram @she_arranges_words