Don’t go to the poem where she kept her things–don’t linger
between ellipses (I hear lips lock, lock, locking)
or flip through the creamy pages where she drew human organ systems
don’t analyze why her skeleton was on its knees. How a vulture reminded her of
airpipes and lungs.
Or hold your breath at the prestige of a magician parading his skin, or
even say that the muscle man looked as if it was plucked out the House of Wax.
Sell it on eBay–that 1968 bootleg of the band that made both of you
cry. Delete all
seasons of Battlestar Galactica in your laptop; otherwise, you’d be hearing *her* whenever Katee Sackhoff goes frak
it’s fuck
frak-ed up… frak-ed over
frak
frak
fvck is what you’d say before you go to a spontaneous combustion
when the ship goes down
(oh shit, that’s already happened, right?)
Red shoes,
blue lips,
Swan-like: this is how you do it:
make her generic and that joint will lose taste…
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