Sarah Escue

AFTER YOUR FUNERAL

 

I throw your leather jacket,
your sheets, your handwritten
letters, into the river.

Broken wine bottles stud
the river’s cusp, glass shards
slice the sky, drawing blood—

thick drops blot my skin
like cigarette burns on a car seat.
Our rope swing strings

that tree—tattered, unspooling.
You’re the thick pill
I can’t swallow,

the cyst in my esophagus.
You, the sore
I can’t quit tonguing.

The prayer I recite before sleep—.
I plunge into rust-red water,
sink in the mud. 

                                    
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