A cardboard box of evidence accosts
my craven past, incites a raw review
of those omissions I repent the most:
not what I did, but what I did not do.
A cache of lilac-colored letters tossed
aside show the seasons when I withdrew
from risks of mellow heart—upbraiding ghosts:
not what I did, but what I did not do.
A plotted map and snapshots with dulled gloss
speak slender words I never shared with you:
I stand arraigned for self-inflicted loss,
not for what I did, but what I did not do.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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