“Don’t take anything with you,” I say. “It’s dangerous.”
I curse the woman sending you to a homeless shelter.
Later, Thrice: “Every scar is a bridge to someone else’s heart.”
Your whines, RedHot, still call to me from my bed,
From where your pillow-pressed lips turned earlier, for mine,
The cold scrubbing our feet against the fabric butterflies.
My feet are up on the desk, and it is not enough
To smell like you. I’m eating those peanuts
You dislike, saving the ones with two per shell.
—At six a.m.--
I’ll ride the dawning trains clumped with churchgoers;
And on our way back, I’ll pass you yesterday’s crossword puzzle
And promise I still haven’t looked at it.
Copyright Xiomara A. Maldonado 2009