iron

I drove to CT with the half-moon in the back of my pickup. A gashy-edged, oxided slice of iron, cut through with a smile and big eyes.

I've been unpacking and not unpacking for days. I'm at once sick of it and then, again, in love with the motions. Reviewing my belongings. What I ended up with of Lil's-- really only one thing-- a book in which she had written notes to herself. Opening it, I felt like I was invading, somehow, the inner leaves of her, layers of some dry epidermis I had once run my fingers achingly along-- spine, edges, inner folds. That was an intimacy I could not bear now. I slid the book back on the bookshelf between two others with similar spines thinking perhaps her's would just disappear into the edges of them.