Amber Cook

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When I emptied the contents of your skull
I was monogrammed into
synapses you would never use,
synapses that I snapped
like green beans, fresh
from the garden bordered by mesh wire,

where I planted you as a seed
& covered you with soil &
gave you water like you’d bud
into a color other than
red overlapping red
down your temple where I traced

my fingers in lines trying to map
my way to words you left sitting in
the saliva around your ceramic mug,
eggs laying stagnant in
rain from weeks before,
drying up in the sun.

I do not imagine the mesh wire to outline
the perimeter of your body
or the preparatory paint recoating the outside of
your white house
where you would leave her alone
in photograph after photograph

for the photo album she kept
on the nightstand and I
do not admit to your exiting before
entering, do not admit to your wound still emptying
out years after,
or years before I could capsulate you in my palm.