She picks her words like they’re pins from grenades.
The blasts were last night, but the shrapnel flies
This morning. It litters my kitchen floor,
chews chunks from my toes as I enter to
hear what my phone bleats for. Each lamprey tooth
carves words from songs we shared on cold mornings
like this. Her skirt is still in the sink. Her
last task for me, to clean the mud from its hem.