history

every night I dream about you. you and twins others who match but only slightly. I dream of screaming at you, accusing you, telling you one by one all the things that gutted me, I dream of missing you, hating you, finding you on the street, you forgetting my face, I forgetting yours. I dream of regret, of searching for you, of panic, of the desire to un-do. I dream of freedom, of rejection, of spitting in your face, of your arms splayed out in dead-air, of couches containing other women.


I dream of turning my head, falling
down stairs, an empty party
that left the curtains in shambles.
I sew and sew, all I see are rags
on the walls wrecked to the core. I fit
the fabric together, bit by bit.
Now, at least, I don’t encounter your face,
only yards and yards of clawed-up muslin, endless
feathered fibers, the mending
of fabrics rotten with moths.

I set my teeth, clumsy with the needle,
and swoop in again.