They put up a steel sheet in front
of your apartment building
It's tacky and gross - my roommate said
it was some art exhibit
I can't quite see into your window anymore
Where you kept the plants that
don't need water -
I can't remember what they're called
You would always cut up watermelon for me
And bring it to my room in Tupperware
I would bite into the flesh and
it would run weeping and sweet down my chin
I reckon I cannot find that sweetness anymore
The freedom that came with
Pink juice pooling in the clavicle
And the borrowed Tupperware
of someone you love
I asked if I could keep the lace shirts
you made in high school
I thought about you sewing them by hand -
So delicate, even with your large fingers,
lace gathered together as white
as wedding cake frosting
To drape on your body
I remember grabbing onto your shirt
To take ahold of myself when the train
lurched and you laughed
Your mom said no though, so I guess I just have these poems
