My listening is brittle but I know that You saw the smallest things: I couldn’t see one leaf. I grew them in my head and burned them down. A lord. With you I became small so I could dive into your glass. Do backstroke. You tended us small things. To balance on a spoon, to wear lungs on our back, to center on a pinpoint deep inside while falling from great lengths. After you left, we did that.


Life, a womb scent fraught with death. Or life. It’s just a seam on either side the same. Both sleep they steal. The only respiteā€™s tears

you try to weave the mind spark to fill what’s gone, to wring a passable texture there but, no Give up. It’s closed, she says with her small hands. Her small cheek settles against mine.

The world just isn’t the same because some people are never really gone And, death, like child, does grow and need you less. The hues we carry on our backs embolden our descent as we become much more of who we really are.

A boxĀ 

There’s a square box in my chest. With Something in it. (Life’s elastic, now I’m sure). Your hands. Their hands. My hands. Love 

Flows from the space and is decidedly blue. I liked to be in all the rooms of my house then. My house alone. In that box 

Only you, me and the box know. I don’t know how to say what’s in there. Only it’s a room arranged in a certain way. My 

Inside steadies with hands and stands on Legs there. Dark tall boxes adorn and I can’t see the shorter ones across. It’s too 

Crowded. The room’s too small. Maybe I Don’t fit there anymore. But you’re still There and I can’t piece it all together. I 

Can’t think of you alive anymore when I’m in the closet and the bathroom. You also were the taker of the blind white 

And my twisted scenes. I’m saving it here in this box an incongruous part of us in case some day I might find the other 

Pieces and make it all fit.