Let's talk about the black plastic bags
Full of fallen angels stuffed in a box,
milky remnants shoved in a can,
the jagged edges of painful crossings-
in the end, all debris,
divorce, shame, death,
husband number three,
dropped in the bags.
They smell like rotten persimmons.
Fossilized fingers grasp the fullness.
You drag them behind feeling the strain
across your shoulders, down the ba…
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