restoration’s rest

by makeshiftashtray

in a blue box, pictures of relief
farmers throw their hands up
in thanks to the gods,
harvest is good.

I picked out the remains
of our love, I remember when
snow reminded you of home,
as it sat on my black eyelashes,
today, I chose another.

it stung, hardened the skin around
each bend of my fingertips, you
graced those too, many, too
many times we clung
so hard the outline of your palm
rusted two winters ago,

lost, on a belly, soft like summer corn
time began again.
On a second, light like air,
hard as a hit,
I said goodbye –

skipping stones, the smell
of ocean, its sandy baptism,
it lies.

I thought –
her cheeks, sandpaper red, she
turns,
happy.