February 1, 2012
I came in to find you laying on the carpet,
belly down,
bent like a stovepipe and
divided into parts-
a mixed up puzzle of a map.

I sank to my knees to
gather up your pieces,
I cupped them in my palms
and tried to make them fit together,
but you were spent.

I went to the bathroom to
wash you off my hands,
stopping to count
all the doors and
all the windows, but when I returned,
despite my self distraction
you were still there-

thumbs rolled under the bed,
the shell of your ear lying uselessly aside
like a dried apricot,
elbows tangled in your hair.

Your heart sat at my feet;
a seam had burst-
all your memories were seeping into the floor,
staining the rug,
I will need more than soap to get that out.

I will tell my mother it is

Out in the yard my brother reads my diary,
there are raspberry seeds between my teeth and
band-aids on my arm,
I will miss you more
than I can say.

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