your handwriting reminds me of
high school

of glossy magazine photos
pinned above your bed
in a crown

a kitchen sink filled with with roses
and a white Styrofoam leg.

The watery up and down of it,
like steam rising or
computer language
drenches me
with the nostalgic anxiety of yearbooks.

were you her?
was I me?
is Brent Ludwig really dead?

This must be what you
were doing when you
went to bed early

learning how to sew
all gold and green and red
stitches holding a heart together
and drawing such perfect shoes.

When did the Easter Bunnies come?
Are they angry?

I want to see the angels’ faces
I fear for them
in this world of feathers and
vicious apples.

The braille doesn’t tell me
what you are thinking

The Rooster is Silent.

That flock of birds who flew
through my notes, in the
hallway twenty years ago—

They have a secret.


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