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a knife between the fifth
rib and the sixth, below the lung,
beneath the diaphragm
near where the heart
sags, burdened
with a love it has no need for,
and a hate it wants no space for,
memory, finger-marking
the things you’ve learned
and what he taught.
Better in than out,
though
it hurts to unbutton
his name from
your skin, undo the map
his hands made of
your breasts, unfold him
from your chest
like he was a sheaf
of love poems
and lay
your grief to rest.
If you forget everything else,
remember this:
cut deep
and
he was never worth
missing.