Third night this week I’ve seen
all our exes milling
around the front
yard. Each lighting
strike outlining
haircuts and ears we begged
the earth to hold.
Flash: and there’s the one
that got away.
Flash: and there’s the boy
whose wrists were only
beautiful when they held
a trumpet.
Flash: and there’s the decapitated
body lifting weights.
Flash: and there’s the guy
who wore a sock
as underwear.
Flash: and the mailbox is full
of letters post
marked years ago
like the office staff of lost
mail got back from holiday
all at once. This letter’s from Matt,
the red one’s
from Jeremy,
the unmarked one
just says “you up baby?
I am horny.”
This one,
a bill for the Royal
Hotel in New Orleans
that neither of us stayed
at. This one, a used
Oraquick test. This
one, a DVD
about a marching band.
This one a black
cat with its back forever
arched. Like squall lines,
or a found photo album,
or the box in the back
of the closet,
no amount of waiting
on the porch with a hatchet
will keep them from
coming back.