Letter to an old love

& my memories of you are thin as cotton worn with age

& soft

& blurred from too much touching too much wear

& my grandmother’s tea towel is a hole surrounded by Canada

& there is nobody to leave her things to nobody to care

& so I use it

& use it up

& my grandmother is a stone surrounded by New England

& too much touching too much wear

& once someone killed my stepfather for his money

& then I didn’t have that father either

& he is an ache a hole surrounded by rage

& family is being stuck with some you love

& some who kill

& then pretend to grieve

& love itself is sometimes a welcome worn out is a fading

& ink wearing off the page

& here in this city we live so close the crows watch us both

& here in this city I will likely never see you again

& I find myself glad about that even though something inside of me is worn by use

& gradually unraveling