Movement 1:

It is that she had never worn half the clothes in her closet.

It is that her mother told every single one of her friends to come

pick through, to take what you want. It’s enough that her torso is

powder—that I could fill my mouth with the ash that she is now. It’s

that she was a coward. That she had never held a boy’s hand or done

anything illegal or kissed someone and regretted it later. That her

mouth never carried anyone else’s name.

Movement 2:

Every time we talk, we fight.

Like I walked you far past a blue house, say “Listen up. This is where

my baby lived. There was this one door in her house that if she fell

out of you could hear her yelling all the way from the backyard

-trapdoor- that’s the word. I know now. She didn’t.”

Movement 3:

Give me five more minutes.

I was young, we were in Rome and all I wanted was to see the catacombs.

The word felt like the rung of a ladder in my mouth, I rolled it over

the whole ride there. You say no. You say what are catacombs. You say

do you know that they used to be people?

I say “What are they now?”

Movement 4:

I wanted him to go to business school. I wanted to believe in god.

Explain chapels. Explain John F. Kennedy’s ghost. Explain the lightbulb.

I painted my fingernails pitch black yesterday because before she

died, she did the same damn thing. I am a poet even in conversation.