If I could figure it out, I would tell you—
Why I discover new ways to let you know I don’t need you.
Through the corridors of what is it
Dragging wicker chairs from the mudroom
Across the concrete to the damp lawn
Nearly crying it’s so fucking pleasant.
I’ve been heaving like this, away, like a dry drunk
From suburb to suburb,
Charting gravel, hating the clay doves that knock from patio eaves.
You’re taking another trip with your girlfriend
Whom you’ve recently told you can’t love
Down through a planned hurricane.
If you come out of it with all of your bearings
I’m holding a place for you in this shuttered backyard,
Two chairs the size of Lego pieces in my fists.
Holly Sinclair 