You were weaving too many ideas together,
a dangerous thing at best
stitching together impossible hopes
like a pearl embroiderer
embroidering pearls on the dock where your heart
was shipped overseas.
On its way it got lost
dropped somehow, silent,
and the seagulls saw
it, they were the only ones,
and ate it like a clam.
Packaged and lost in the span of two days,
where does that leave you?
On the playroom table.
We played doctor when we were young, faking
C sections and craniotomy.
You’re just a soft white mouse,
the Christmas toy always left out of the game
and the brother crying above.
You always knew you were heartless
towards yourself, chest empty—
embroidering spangled droplets of your blood
over the sea like
foam on my ebbing hope.