My word documents

The first pomegranates of the season, their ruby globes

turning your mouth into the last meal of a zombie,

seeds transferred between your teeth and his.

Your mother’s pie-making sessions,

how the crust floured your hands into snow

and the windows steamed with sugar,

so clouded you wrote out help me

with the tip of your pinky finger.

The day when someone did help you.

Flushed the bottles down the toilet,

carried your nodding-off body into bed.

All the first times with the boyfriend

who left you envelopes of stones

to throw at his window in case he ever forgot

to pick you up. The way he spooned against you,

warm and burrowing,

like bears that go to their deaths

as a permanent form of hibernation.

The seaside at 1am, the sand dollars

strung through seaweed

across the rocks like necklaces.

That time you cried

because of onions

and not, for once,

from the emptiness inside.

San Francisco in autumn, the vendors

turning over hot dogs on grills,

the sauerkraut that seared your mouth

into salt and lemon,

how he still kissed you anyway.

Your sister’s solemn voice,

how she woke every day at 6am

to run through the woods

while everyone else lay sleeping.

The stranger who stopped you on the street

to say, everything will be alright.

The day