You could have just filleted me there
on the mailroom floor instead
then I wouldn’t need to show up
for Comp. I class, grief refastened
a worn-in red cardigan
buttoned up so high it chokes
the failure looped around my neck
like a latchkey to a burned-down house
and my throat was already full of bones
shorn feathers of hope
so it was probably
for the best
that I said nothing
but the vacant stare
syllables of the Fuck off thought stuck
in the amber-thick depression
repooling at my feet
like memories of broken water
and ruined things
I swore I’d left back home
next to the newborn-sized clothes
Christmas gifts waiting
for the child who arrived
too early
too still
still lungless
as the stand of trees
green canvas I watched for a week
willing the wind to resuscitate their branches
let me see them breathe.