Normally, I'd snap pics right now
through my computer,
like pausing life in a mirror,
but that computer is broken.
No pic, then, can show me here
bathtub-swimming in the
sliver bracelet he bought me
one anniversary he was home.
My hair’s tied up, the sides sliding out--
if I had the pic, I'd send it to an
online friend so someone
could appraise me as beautiful.
I soak my stomach. It’s cramped for four days,
breasts pumped with sore blood for seven.
That other man is out right now
with someone else.
But he’s sorry.
I slept next to his tattoos last night.
I’ll hold his t-shirt tonight
and buy him three packs of cigarettes tomorrow.
Two lifetimes ago, Catherine (she/her) performed her poetry in Madrid. Now her main jobs are to write and hang out with her family. Her work has appeared in Pank, Victorian Violet Press, and The Grief Diaries. Find her on twitter @czickgraf.