Purse of Souls

She didn’t know what she didn’t know.

where he went, why he came back — a little more different each time.

If hackles were things, they were on him, his back, each time he returned.

If deadness in the heart was also a thing, well, she had that condition, for her part.

you love a person, you purchase their weight.

you relax with their spirit, you partake of their plate.

of course there were warnings about said things . . .

opening doors, crossing thresholds, defiant and prematurely.

How horrible, but excellent, this racing of veins inside her.

who could tuck these feelings, back in their protective womb?

Who would fold the blanket where all of their love, it had sprinkled?

She needed an answer, like one full ocean bath.

But these were the days when you marched the hall of souls . . .

so very, very

alone.

— for this was the toll booth she’d veered for.