What is on your bedside table? In your fridge?
Your hedge? Are you the type who searches
for a robin’s egg and its crumbs, or for a bone
with which to beat a brass band’s drum?
What is your first memory, first kiss,
first fist in your own mouth? The fourth?
What is your thirst? How do you prefer your light,
shaken or stirred? Bright or broken?
What is your yours, the unsayable, the
immeasurable, the thing your ex-lovers miss?
They’ll never admit what it is, so you’re left
to list songs for your funeral as if the notes know
who you are, who is on your nightstand, who
is rotting in your fridge. Who is wearing your
old prom dress as a costume, the dress you once
called yours, the dress you once declared was so you.
