I have learned it’s really difficult to dispose of certain things: 

paint, broken glass, old vacuums. 

The pull in my stocking widens and widens 

and I think I recognize the face behind the stocking. 

There is a stained washcloth 

pinched between a door hinge 

and it reminds me that falling out of love 

is like hearing your favorite song at the grocery store. 

I should have left my tab open, 

my blouse on the floor, my hands, 

busy and warm with grief. 

 

I fear this ache comes from somewhere beyond my bones. 

I see it dangling from the mouths of dogs 

and from the fingertips of infants. 

Sometimes I can see that there is a sunset. 

Sometimes, it’s just another light, 

orange and blinking. 

A torn exit sign. 

Plastered across the horizon.

​

​