Andi Myles

Expire means breathe out

Trees sprout knowing the day

they will die. They adore what tiny

romantics we are—recording their life

in rough rings only for us. Observe our sapling

our green love that startled even the sand

as it burned through plush fog to sweep

the boughs above. It, too, sings

of its death, silver beetles dripping from its mouth.

Estate

Dear laundry basket with the cracked handle

dear itchy, faded, crocheted baby blanket,

unused eraser in the shape of a palm tree,

loose Advil in a Ziploc bag,

dear copy of Where the Wild Things Are

with the torn page—the one

where they are howling at the moon,

dear soft green sock tucked in the back of the drawer

whose match was lost years ago,

dear pens that have just a word of life left in them,

length of ribbon with no discernible use,

stack of Harper’s Magazines,

dear teenage journals and yearbook signature of my high school crush,

dear size 2 pair of patchwork jeans,

unfinished application to study abroad,

dear phone numbers I haven’t tried since 2002,

21-year-old emails,

dear photo of me at 24, cigarette in one hand,

bourbon neat in the other,

dear me in that photo

days before a black eye she never saw coming

turned her into a person

she never thought she’d be, and could never unbecome

dear friend’s hand on the shoulder of the me in the photo

trying to hold me there, whole, a moment longer

dear friend who still fantasizes

about the unblemished me in that photo.

Dear things I cannot throw away,

but will leave behind.

---

Andi Myles is a Washington DC area science writer by day, poet in the in between times. Her favorite space is the fine line between essay and poetry. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Tahoma Literary Review, and Brink Literary Journal, among others. You can find her at www.andimyles.com.