Oh, my needy pocket, the crooked 
tunnel that is not, in fact,  
a tunnel. You have brought me 
joy. You have brought me. 
Who am I to question? First— 
Chill—Then Stupor—Then 
the evacuation. And  
a man with a stained shirt. 
My legs spread. Are you sure? 
he asked. Yes, I said.  
Will she come back? Will she 
come back? Will she come 
back? Will she come back? Will 
she come back? Will she  
come back? Will she come 
back? Will she come back?  Will
she come back? Will she come 
back? Will she come back?  Will 
she come back? Will she—I 
heard it all—the jar of me.  I put 
on my pants and gave thanks. I 
held my grief like two limp 
tulips. What am I allowed to 
have? I’m still  
here. I’m still hers. I’m  
still a body licked by stars.  
My eyes always drawn  
to the groveling. Bless  
these burnt wings. Bless.  
Would I do it again?  
Yes. Yes. Yes.