She ripped the pocket on my breast
And stole along with everything
The loaded metaphors I flipped
Before I took my decision
To write or not about a thing
I knew I had no right over.

It’s good I keep my shards of heart
Among the shuffled decks of pain
In pockets stitched on to my sleeves
To pull or pack away a spade
Depending on the hand I’m dealt.

I call or raise or fold it all
As paper planes in pockets full
Of paper marigolds in bloom:
The crumpled leaves of struckthrough lines
That cut her when she tore at me.

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