Amoeba

Drawn to light,
away from light,
toward food and away —

dividing constantly
but (in my case) never completely
splitting, what is inside me boils in upon itself.

I am defined by my edges because
there are so many smaller definitions
within me —

and I never thought
my edges could be
so distant from my center.

I know there is a center.
Every time I split
it’s in two, so somewhere

inside there must be space
that does not belong to
one of them.

Perhaps there, where there is
nothing at all, is where I am.
It’s crowded enough in here

without having to claim an identity,
and the prospect of having myself
be the empty space as far from my margins

as can be is comforting —
let me be somewhere away from
the things that the world touches —

let the light die and let me starve,
let the others in here waste away.
I will go with them, and that is how

I should be remembered:
he who was hollow
at the center,

he who was lost among his
portions, he who was nonetheless
in there, somewhere.