Paper Rain

by Sarah Gawricki


shredded letters
I tried using
as fertilizer

grow something
from our sudden
valediction,
a cherry tree,
something sweet to chomp while I’m swallowing
the acidic “no,”
bromeliad to protect me with her spikes,
orchids to wilt in too much sunlight,
a rose to give my daughter when she becomes
moss in someone else’s garden
an arboretum started at the
ankles

and our unsweetened breath:
beryl droplets of sweet
miserable text
coalescing
into envelope shaped
coffins,
folded,
origami carrier pigeons,
floating off their ceramic posts
cutting through a cloud
paper rain
drifting through the drapes
landing lightly on her leg

perched softly
on your bed.

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