Hollow Pocket of Warmth

by Isabel Hoin

The space between the heart and lungs feels hollow. An opening of flesh, a pocket, to keep my ancestors warm inside of me. When thinking of them, I knock on my chest with my knuckles, hands clenched— skin hitting skin— to assure myself they’re still there. They never fail to make a peep, though. This always leaves me in a wondering state. Their existence continues to gnaw at my brain as I lay in bed, sleeping, while they lay asleep in their coffins. The ancestors and I lay alone in these states of slumber. When I need another presence in the night, I know to knock— skin to skin, this intimate act— and they will appear. This keeps the mind curious, the hollow pocket always warm.

Author's Bio

Isabel Hoin (she/her) is a student at Old Dominion University where she is a Perry Morgan Fellow in their MFA program. She works at The Muse Writers Center in Norfolk, VA, teaching people of all ages the art of poetry. Her work is already in or is forthcoming inDoor = Jarmagazine,Blue Press magazine, Wild Roof Journal,andThe Fool’s World,among others. Her poem “Writing To The Silence Of Mother’s House” was nominated by ODU MFA faculty for the AWP Intro Journal Contest. She is a Lancaster, PA native and misses the corn fields daily. You can find out more about her at here.