The remnants of love come down to
An old calico cat sitting in the early morning
Before our bedroom door croaking
You fed me yesterday
And whatever came before yesterday
And the Boy Scout knife I carry
Though it is not a knife, file, letter opener,
Scissors, or can opener but
An ugly faded green plastic and metal
Relic of something I never cared for anyway
But thought I should.
And your sleeping face
One of countless, present-yet-absent masks,
A breathy flower,
Eyes closed, sedate, sightlessly staring
Into the heights of nothingness
Until some memory spooks your soul—
The fourth-grade cloakroom,
Two bigger girls who have it in for you.
And the patchwork quilt on our bed—
Our saving genius.
Frayed and lumpy
Assembled by patient hands
From the unnoticeable, from cloth
That started out sunny as sight,
Confident matter ending with a wince—
Cat whining, knife dull,
Your face mortally still, slandered by oblivion—
Yet become a whole:
Something larger, if not grander.
From Unidentified Flying Objects
By Baron Wormser
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