I kept everything. I spent

     the quilted dawn awake

and bruised. The horses were asleep,

     mouths swollen and soft.

​

I said the linens were washed, rabbit skinned

     when I ran the afternoon.

You ask my name, I spit back something close

     enough. No spare part of me is soft.

​

Christmas, the neighbors carried a puppy swathed in burlap,

     a pink ribbon around his neck.

They cradled him, and my whole family leered while I paused –

     afraid to touch a creature so soft.

​

When I first saw my love cry I thought the planet shifted,

     sky tearing itself new,

roaring blue while I shredded my last full breath

     on his leaving, his soft.

​

How much space between his body and her.

     My eyes shut to the scene

Behind doors I stained with touch. Did he overlap the shapes I left?

     You see, I thought I was good, soft.

​

The dogs quiet. I bound rosemary and thyme,

     set the silverware and do not

scream. Now, I show my teeth in pictures, I bride,

     I let. The ache wears soft.