2/30

She stole the sound
of my name and fingered it
deep in my throat.

I let out a years worth
of sighs, because I know
that you only showered

to get your hair smelling
like hers did. You still
don’t understand the difference

between scars and tattoos, the
winters of Minnesota, and the history of
your flinches and of your fake-outs that bring
on our make-outs.

I can see that when you look up at me
and ask if you can do your laundry
it is only something unreasonably nostalgic.

But without hesitation I say yes.

After you have gone I check to see
if you had cleaned out the dryer vent. You, like her, had
always forgotten.

As I turn the corner there is that tiny patch
of grey-blue fluff sitting on top of the washing machine.
I bend down to nose level and give one last inhale. It is
the most distant, but deepest scent of you.

-sonja lynn mata