a journal of fantastical poetry

The Anniversary

by Sonya Taaffe

When I died, my lover tucked me for safekeeping
between a draft notice and a dresser key
in her diary,
she hid her heart in a pillowcase of old clothes
and pretended she was running for the train.
Even now, she leaves out slices of lemon
as if I will chew them to wake up, standing by the sink.
She scratches lottery tickets, makes the same spinach soup.
When they burned my body,
it cried like a violin.

May 22nd, 2016

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