These are the kind of poems
they want us to write,
about black-red birds and the sky
and the plumpness of tomatoes
soft against your tongue,
how it relates to our humanity
and our connection to the eternal.
But I don’t relate to birds
and tomatoes (though I
will eat them endlessly)
do not keep me up at night.
When I am forced to flatten
the pages of my journal,
it’s the calluses on his fingers
how I want to scrape them
scratch his dead skin off
until he forgets me,
but he has already
forgotten me.
Sarah Thursday 