I’ve been saying goodbye to everything.
The artichokes on my kitchen counter — tiny hearts quivering
under a knife, my grandmother’s aging knees — persistent
and achy, the way my mother sometimes looks
at the sky — all glimmer and home. In dreams,
my car drives backwards, I run too slow, I am sitting atop
a streetlight, smashing a bulb between my teeth.
I’ve been exercising my body away. Here,
take this machine called my sadness. Toss it
in a lullaby, it needs tenderness, spring, maybe
a little hymn to hum it to sleep. Zina’s favorite flower
was sunflowers. They’ve been following me
around everywhere I go. A decade’s past. My best friend
and I are breaking up, but I’ve been grieving
for so long my eyes become flutes. I wish to ask
my grandfather what happens after we die,
but everything I say sounds like a quiver.
It’s so hard being a person. I promised Zina she’d live
forever. She gave me the sun instead.
Unkept
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