branches. roots.

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the wind just lifted the branches outside my sliver of window. my heart is broken. the most brilliant beautiful woman i have ever known just died. 

branches. roots.

She-of-constant
bloom-filled kitchen
enfolds, says

you’re lucky

when I tell her I am
studying what she is

living. Bulbs

crinkle at the ends. She
flips from bluebright

surprise. Feathers near
translucent in her delicate
lap rest, inactive.

Her chin yields a fine
crop of protective hairs

I want to reach out

to trace along this
furry slope I have

memorized since
opening my first

book. Reaching pulp.
Scrabble board. Soft
boiled egg. Two

porcelain pigs
on this kitchen
shelf above her boughs.

These wounds used to
thrive, discover, fingerpaint.

I crumble to stars as she pats
my knee. Stops.
Stares at the wall

behind me. Art
has flown; her instructive
smile is replaced by

a lack. Her spark

no longer aflame; the chill
has come and she has fallen
from her branch.

 

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