the world divides itself into the blankets you
haven’t seen and the blankets you will.
---------------------------------------------------------
your father leaves your old bed unmade
like you left it, a museum artifact to mourn.
in your absence he stands in the doorway
of the room you used to live in, fingers
the scars you
left in the doorframe from
furious gunfire doorslams--the time a fourteen
year old you screamed “leave me alone” so loud
a painting fell
off the wall. your keen adolescent
sense of injustice was prone to scraped knees.
he wonders whose bed you sleep in now
and how many apologies they write you,
whether they bounce like bad checks.
-------------------------------------------------------
your father stands in your doorway; thinks
about calling you; doesn’t. he misses
you and your wars.
y is there no box for sad
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