The guilt comes


throwing away

the envelopes,

ghosts, shades

of the words you

poured down

islands to me —

dead charity shop

coats, or hospital

gowns, holy robes

to keep the

sick out; and

I know

if I could

just hold on

to them, tuck

them inside my

chest, wrap them

around my ribs,

all thick bleach

bright, keep my

paper heart

safe from

the cold

and the alone —

that when

I am opened

on someone else’s

table, in no one

else’s home

they will see

clear as cloud-

covered day

how best to


my heart

to sender.

The End

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