One About a Ribcage

the only poetess
I've ever railed
with feeling
asked if I still had it:
the verse she penned
nine years ago:
an ode to star-crossed
"It's been my favorite one
I want to read it again,"
she said.

At first I swore I did--
the packrat sentimentalist
who cherishes his trinkets.
I dug through drawers
in the desk my mother bought
when I was in fourth grade
to no avail:
Just photos of another;
And postcards;
And notes;
Reminders of the criminal
who purged
what wasn't hers.
Pictures painted:
Cursed verses:
Snapshots not including her:
Missing ancient history.
Clandestine acts of vengeance
set like landmines by a maid;
Almost two years later
and she's still staking her claim.
I send a text to tell her so.
Thank God there's no reply.

I may live this life
without another rhyme
ever making way to paper
thin enough to pierce my skull.
There are men who die unwritten.
Most of them don't mind.
But me, I'll always wonder
why the optimist forgot
to commit her lines to memory.

There was one about my ribs.

No comments: