Apr
29
Erica
My friend, only you
deserve a book.
And so I’m wrapping
this poem
in mangos,
in cross-colored over-
read fruit—
I’m buzzing flies and other
lit things
around it-
because books were
our want, our immortal
story, like the square
day I forgot
to meet you, like
the night I lost
your scarf,
like the shelves that
gave us places, like
the shoes you
knew
to write.
