When You Left
by Naomi Ayala

    When you left
    the afternoon of the day
    you were missing from policed appearances
    I shied into my flank
    walked crooked through Saturday
    past the woods of Sunday walk
    into the smog of Monday
    with its hurried crowds.
    I collected tiny air globules of memory
    into a magic pocket meant for rain
    and soft-speaking. Like in dreams
    when I see, live something I wake without
    Friday came -- my heart tight
    and without history.






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