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.