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