Note to self: quit writing poetry about things, harmonize with birds


There is no forgetting
Not even when you broomstick thwack
The back of your hand a thousand times
Each night
And not when it stops hurting
Not even
When you cut all of the old letters into one inch
And make a paper mâché piñata of them
You do not forget
When you pop the balloon
When the stick finally hits
The something behind you only knows memory talk now. How
the blindfold feels like everything you
used to intimate to other shadows
But you never bleed candy despite
Sucking sweetness straight through every lovers ear hole
You’re all pulp
So you ring in the morning with
last night’s bootstrap bells
While imitating
This day’s first bird call through always chapped lips
Knowing it is not perfect
It is still beautiful
Because you are learning to teach yourself
How to raise the sun
and how to harmonize with it
Knowing fully that if this porch was an island
And everything not on it right now
Was a thick ocean away
You would not forget
You would always still find your small toe
tracing subconscious names in the sand and
the ash would settle looking too much like
the silhouette you define emptiness by
You would always find ways to survive

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