by MELISSA COOK
I have written about loss like
my body is tomb for cupid arrows
plucked from my ancestors.
Small-scripted obituaries of
every lover onto my skin
My body is a mausoleum,
designed by a musician and
redesigned by an artist,
and if you asked one to describe
me he’d say I was the scent
of aging metal on his ring finger
and the numerals on his bones.
And I often wonder how he felt
when he made the music I write to,
when did he begin his grieving?
why were his instrumentals about me?
I know a lot of women would find that
romantic, but he, he used his titles
as a branding,
Why did I barter hips for love?
When did he know the “time had
passed for us”?
When did I start asking so many
Probably when my poetry began to
reflect his dishonesty. He knew I
would find absence in his
The last time I saw you, you
fed me at the airport, and I told you it
was the last time you would see me.
two and a half years ago.