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Men’ll hollow you out
to call you empty,

shovel deep into your earth
yet ignore the heat that radiates

from your discontent so wide
its center cannot be touched.

Shovel deep into your earth
yet heave all substance aside.

Men’ll hollow you out
to call you empty.

Dig a hole as though
waiting for it to fill.

No man is an island; well,
no woman is a well.




Floor of Denver Airport; Terminal B, 5 a.m.

Salt had spilt out of a man’s head,
now collecting around his cowboy hat,
his cowboy mouth, slightly ajar.
Gently he sleeps. Even here.

Slow breaths push the salt out
to encircle him, the boy
who when his toy bronco broke its leg,
slept with its detached leg
under his pillow for weeks.

Keep what is whole close.
What is broken closer.




Jacquelyn Rochelle Nasti lives and works in New Orleans. She recently received her MFA in Poetry from the University of New Orleans. Her poems can be found, or are forthcoming, in The Carolina Quarterly, The Pinch, and elsewhere.