Untitled

As the soup warms
and yesterday seeps
in tiny beads from your
ribcage, the coyotes
go yipping in the canyon
and you can’t think who
the sound remembers you as.
How cancerous in your
gut the one woman
with a face like moon
stands, naked and shivering
in some rain you culled from
photographs and the other, with
her whispers still hanging
like cotton from the room’s
corners, sits curled in someone else.
You’ll fall asleep buried
in the nest of this.

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