Firepit where we burned trash—we weren’t meant to. The avocado green refrigerator that hummed excessively loud. Three lines of ants that—stubborn, busy, would move over only an inch when I scrubbed the floor. I’m lying. I scrubbed around them. I wouldn’t let them go. We were unhappy in the ways most couples are unhappy. I chipped the fox-shaped saltshaker when I threw it near you. You stepped out of the way, didn’t get hit. I was sluggish back then. Our nights smelled like a burnt bed, like someone before us had scorched the house then covered it up with a bit of plaster and paint. I remember the hole in the fence, in the overgrown yard, in the town where I would fall in love with another, and you would be excused, and pack everything, or pack a little, leaving me to gather your belongings in your absence. Scratches on my hands from clearing brush. Scratches on my hands from the stray black cat. I’m lying about the saltshaker. I was sluggish, but you were also. I’ll never forget the socks and photos I burned in the yard, the nick on your temple, and in and out of the hole in the yard—the fox, which I named Injury. And what followed behind it, close, like the light of your favorite constellation. Moonstruck.
Poetry - ISSUE #27