“

My mother’s bible is worn through the spine
but I have never opened mine. Instead, I have a shelf full of holy things:
A glass bottle. A fake tangerine. A paper bag from a farmer’s market
and you, in ash, in a jar the size of my heart.

I smoke to bring us closer. I have an ashtray the shape of a fist.
I write love letters. I write love lists. I have a box of cigarettes in my back pocket
and bits of your name scarred onto my wrist.
You used to hit me, and I don’t miss it.
I miss your lips on mine, but not the bruises.

My mother says I should pray more often.
Instead I kneel beneath the shelf in my room. There are photos of you.
Bottles of white glue and jars full of stale weed. My mom says it’s not what I need.
My mom says I am a kingdom, and you were a bad seed
growing through the lining of my stomach. A poison.
I open the jar that you live in. I dig.

The shelf is not big – it is heavy with magazines
and plastic rings you once bought out of toy machines. Sagging.
I keep adding to it – books you once promised you would read. 
Lipstick, dirty dishes, baby teeth on a string. Blank CDs. 
“I am listening.”

My mother says that I ought to go to church.
Instead I am on my knees gathering the things you might miss:
first edition comic books, new kicks, soft hits. 
I know this isn’t living, but it’s as close as I can get.

And when the shelf fills up, I buy a new one.
I add twenty pills and a glass of water.

”