What We Found In The Attic
The woman you once loved
does not sleep between us in bed.
She is always awake
in my palms
when I move to touch your face
when I mistake your shaking
born of the cold.
We have spoken at length, you and I,
about being inhabited by the body
of a flinch. About what turns us
into bird’s bones. Its fingers
growing longer and longer
the more we think of them.
He says, “it is not because of you,”
I say, “I see another face sometimes, too.”
She sends you once-in-a-while love notes,
still. You let me read them;
they do not come to you like poems
of some long-soured ‘I miss you.’
It is something else entirely to me that
some past love must look like
blood to you.
I have my own memories
of similar blood, too.
In the attic of a home that is new to us,
we find a box of wedding photographs
We still try to believe that
was still love.
But we know, with these promises
on our skin, some love cannot be
forgotten. Some love