Box after box,
I was having trouble
with the move—
so much to carry.
Until I understood:
some things,
so fused with the room,
belonged there now.
They weren’t mine anymore.

And in my heart—joy:
I’d left that space
better than I found it.

I bought a Ouija board
on impulse, to contact you.
Then I remembered:
for you, unlike me,
there was life after love.

They asked me what you were.
“a cancer man,” I said.
They frowned and politely clarified —
“we didn’t mean astrology.”
“Neither did I.”

In the safe of my heart,
next to my grandma’s earrings,
and my dad’s childhood art,
I keep your devotion.
The way you said my name—
with such emotion
I am a hoarder, I know
who am I hurting, though?

Just like Sylvia Plath
I found myself still
before all the possibilities.
And you know what?
It really ****** me off.
There’s one fig I really wanted—
Me birthing his kid.
Honey-dark and out of reach.
Yet it haunts me,
every other spring.