DURING THE MONTH IT TOOK FOR YOU TO LEAVE ME by Sierra DeMulder
i filled my gas tank to 33 dollars and 33 cents
and told you it was for you
because it was your favorite number.
i bought flowers from a homeless man
because you are a botany major,
because i wanted to bring them to you,
wilting and loveless,
and show you how i can nurture something worth saving.
i made dinner for two, ate it alone.
made your bed for two, slept in it alone.
i watered all 13 of your plants in our apartment
while you were out finding what you couldn’t find in me.
i organized our belongings
(white teeshirts – books – toothbrushes –
baby, this is where we keep our sweaters)
as if using the word “our” would embed myself
into what you call home.
there is a five finger scar above my breast.
there is an orchestra on my neck shaped like your pulse
from all the nights you held me the way
you only hold something slipping.
there are 6 stakes
pressed like stubborn flowers
between the last time i kissed you and today
but you still feel like a sound caught in my throat.
