Suitcases
I pack my ghosts in suitcases before
climbing the train.
The red one with the wheels,
that’s where his hands have lived
since the time they
touched me,
pushed me,
put a sweaty bone
against my mouth.
I don’t unzip him,
or dare to look inside.
Next to him, I’ve got a canvas bag:
Forest green with doubt,
I put a lock on this one.
Twisted and bitter like rhubarb pie,
he doesn’t live here, just
a shell of who he was,
slouched in a suitcase jail cell
like I was,
because I was the girl who
drank too much,
said sorry too much,
and gave a damn too little.
Because my knees were filled
with sand,
and I would not sink on them
so that he could feel
bigger.
The train passes without me.
