No dawn or dusk, just pure darkness, no moon. In that solitude
     every bit of your body vibrates, and the voice tells you
you are nobody. You are an egg to be cracked open and your yolk fried
     golden then consumed. You cracked as Mama held you,
 
a nobody, not Odysseus under sheep skin, his mouth still warm
     from Circe’s breasts, his heart still lingering under the shadow
cast under which he once saw Penelope’s face clearly.
     You hold tight to chisel the impression of the clouds
 
standing free like deities with titanium white mixed with some gray
     in the baby-blue sky. Sometimes, when you are so perturbed
by the voice at midnight turning to cast blame,
     tapping on your shoulder, asking why you haven’t done enough,
 
you feel your split nail hurting your nerves most acutely.
     Your center breaks and all you wish for is light
to shine upon your wide-open eyes.
     As you wait patiently, you feel your heart harden,
 
no longer gooey but baked. The depths of your soul still golden,
      and complicit because even after they gagged you, you felt
for Management, which asked, “Excuse me, but do you believe
     wrongdoing happened under your watch?”