Sonnets In Astana 5

If betrayal is a small word; rot
Camouflaging as change; if I
Lost the bare feet you loved;
If my spine grew spikes; kiss

The pictures of me you put
In the cookie tin with the exes
I’d like to press my ex-body
Into stratified, metamorphic

Dishwater —  what? No, I’m not
mad — I’m just not here; leave
a — sure, cheese, just not salty —
Remember the toy trains we lost

In the move? Small movement: turn
one around & the magnets repulse.



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