by Amie Zimmerman

There isn’t a way to dissect you from my body, or I would have done it already. You know how hard it is for evergreen vines to recover from devastating pruning and yet you wield hatchets and jigsaws as if in the circus. I bought two rainbarrels because I figured at some point one would get tainted with my heartbreak and no amount of iodine can make that water safe to drink. My socks leave a reversed welt at the double knit cuff—I keep moving it up and down periodically so that you will have an obvious red-ringed ladder to climb, you will know where to go. Lovers shouldn’t need marked paths, it should be about sonar range. I could close my eyes and click my way across the trainyard, across the mall, up every waterfall and not get plowed, mugged, or drowned. My hungry click finds your breast, falls madly asleep, and wakes unsown.

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