this is fresh.
like the last word
someone said.

like old photographs
of you unsure of your beauty
and skill and power
set to the mountains
at sunset like you couldn’t
imagine not having that.
because it was there it was outside
and you were there.
the last time you look at a place.
the space between states,
the plane ride to your
brother’s coma.
this is fresh.

not wrapped in plastic
soma, this is the last time you’ve ever
seen or heard from someone.
i am familiar with death.
you would never know by looking at me
that i have experience forty, maybe more,
in my life.
but if you ever saw the contents of
my purse, the twisted straws,
the clutter, you would see a child.

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