an ode to the moon and her galaxies - a poetry collection

Cleaning Out Your Things

I barely remember

husks of plastic butterfly

wings ripped and crushed

thoraxes left behind.

I will not speak

of the eyelashes

you glued to your

oyster-shell white

volkswagen beetle.

I don't want to see a single

handgun, a single ash in sight.

I want to see how the dead

still read the scripture in our ribs.

I will unbury your memory,

fill all your missing pieces

with the glitter still lying around

your bubblegum bedroom.

Let me untangle your frail body

from the bloodied chaise cushions,

let me fix your hair this time.