I Wish You Pockets
I Wish You Pockets
in your funeral dress, places to hold your tissues,
new and used, on the day of your mother’s
memorial service, a pocket for your phone
so you can reach me during the worst of it.
When you want to claw at the eyes of
unnecessary conflict, your stepfather’s
rancid breath and histrionic display,
I wish you pockets in your mouth, places
for your tongue to explore so you can
hold back sharp retorts. I wish you
pockets of strength, wells to dip into
when all of this leaves you empty and dry.
I wish you pockets to hold it all in.
When you get to the lighthouse, I wish
you pockets you can turn inside out
and set all the contents free.
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