And so here we are—you,
resting in your enclosed space amongst the roots of

trees, and me, eating a sandwich on white bread. 

To Pretend Otherwise

being raised catholic only taught me to resent god

I consume the 
scraps that once 
made up what
felt like
         home/
you lie asleep
in a fitted room
under the
    earth



now we start anew / become what we dreamt / 

camouflage the change / empty throats of their secrets

I thought things made of death were your favorite,


but perhaps I am misremembering and you’re not
actually here, after all.