by Miriam Alex
Miriam Alex (she/her) is a 17 year-old from southern New Hampshire. Her work is published or forthcoming in Frontier Poetry, Gigantic Sequins, Gone Lawn, and Uncanny Magazine. At the moment, she is likely playing word games on her phone. She tweets at @miriamcore_.
For What It's Worth
Your cardigan is still hanging
on the doorknob. I didn’t sell
the plant. The curtains hold
their shape. The waitress still knows
your order, and you still know how to nurse
an accident. Your face, flushed
like the burns against my wrists. Breakfast
at seven. Our laundry isn’t folded yet. Soft,
tired shirts. Our fathers and their vinyl
rings and their wedding bands
gone missing. A record,
loveless and pale. How we’ve never seen
a sequoia, but planned a trip to the edge
of what we knew again
and again. I look for honey
for our pancakes and the moon
for our love letters. When I heard the engine
shudder and the eggs
scald on the stove, I braced. Not a breath.
All of this, still ours.