When you left you took my sheets with you.
You took the spice wheel, my Chinese takeout place, most of the better friends
and, with any luck, two or three biting remarks cast at an already closed door.
Leaving refugee picture frames cradling smiles of illegitimate children.
A ruined culture, reduced: undeciphered trinkets keening an old lady’s garage sale
peddled away for legal tender. But as the rains return, the dread spunk crawls
back out of laundry basket fairytales at last, basted in glory.
You took the better half of the month of May,
but the violence closet and the brick teeth of our vacant space are staying with me.
you can have the sheets