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The last time I saw you
I was going to heal all my soft spots;
quiet places that still ached from the festering loss
of what was
(or what wasn't).
I brought a box with
a scarf,
t-shirts of yours I slept in
(now heavy with the scent of my soft belly),
a cactus,
and your mother's book of poetry.
I searched my room,
previously littered with all the bits and pieces
that come apart and fall away
after a year down our thunder road.
We exchanged boxes, awkward thank-yous,
and I thought I'd found it all,
and you kissed me.
Suddenly I remembered
how I'd forgotten my lungs in your sink,
abandoned after thanksgiving with your family,
how the last place I saw my liver
was your cabinet, tinkling in a glass.
Before you,
they were my own.
I remembered
how my fingertips
were still tucked into every letter
I'd ever written you,
how my breasts were still in your palms,
how my collarbone was left tangled in your sheets.
But I knew where my heart was,
because I felt her slide her way across the room,
spanning the three feet between us to leap
up your sleeve,
so I did not ask for my heart
to be in that box.
And, if something is still working
it must not be broken,
so maybe
if a piece of me
still knows your breathing,
I am not brokenhearted after all.
I left, shaken,
if your ankles ever got kicked
under my bed,
if a rib ever fell into
my sock drawer,
or even
if I didn’t know it
in all my dreams
of yellow dogs and psychedelic umbrellas,
if you might find me one day,
in the supermarket
or a traffic light,
and notice your heart
still between my hands.

7 Dec 06

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(13 more poems by this author)

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I believe you can cut this ruthlessly and it will be better for it.  Last line, between your hands?  What's holding it up?  I think you might mean IN your hands!

I'll come back to this.  
 — Isabelle5