Breakup Poem
rating: +13+x

English Ivy on the ashtray shelf, dying. The experts won't agree if she was underwatered or overwatered. They always tend to say overwatering is worse, hypercedia, but there's no root rot that I can see. On average, the diagnosis is that I watered her just right. How else can the moon be on both sides of the Earth? She's very quiet except when I press on a seaweed crisp of a leaf—click of a capsule, crumble on the carpet. I lost a ring that looks like a moon. It has filigree of leaves between two trusses. Maybe it will come back to me. Will my vine be ready to, after she's learned what she needed to, from the hidden half of the sky? Or was she beneath my feet always, a snake with no tail, one head by the ashtray and one off the coast of Saint-Denis? And if you held a can of tomatoes to your ear in Saint-Denis, would you have heard me singing to the ashtray? I never knew I lived on a candy apple. But I guess I knew the skewer shouldn't go through, all the way through.

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