to make sure I'm able
to make my way
back, from the glow,
the debris. I carve
out makeshift souvenirs
from each of the fallen
stars. I would bring you
one if you'd let me—
nestle in, resettle, hum
then glow again. My ears
popped and made a sound
that divides its time between
your focused attention
and my asking. Broken
or not, these bones are
still my bones and my
leaving is like your leaving
minus the intention.

__

"I Keep a Map from My Doorstep to Yours" was written during my time
in workshop with the absolutely wonderful poet Lisa Fishman. [link]