Burning Up / Blowing Away

Here is a space. Your mouth
saying, nothing. Here are my hands,
the same as the last day you
held them. And the moon,
which I always seem to forget,
watching over everything. You and
me, and all that rotten poetry.
Here are my ribs,
you cracked them open
hoping for a pearl.
You found the desert instead;
kept waking up with sand
in your bed – kept turning
red – kept seeing a mirage
in the heat of your head:
A woman who could bear it all,
would crawl, hands and knees,
to wash your feet.
This is my hair. It is clean.
These are my hands, these are
my knees. This is my skin,
and other things, but what you
loved was never me.
You can die in the desert.
You can rot in the dirt.
Here are my hands, and nothing
hurts.

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