CHRISTY FERRATO OFF THE PAGE

The heart that loves you, and

the heart that stopped beating

 

for you, each day they bleed

a little. Yesterday, the handle fell

 

off the rolling pin. I saved it

in the box I keep for you, saved it

 

with your letters, old photos, and

the penknife from Pelee Island.

 

It should be meaningless.

I can’t explain how

 

a man destroys everything,

and a woman still loves. 

 

After all these years

I thought it would be different,

 

thought the yellow birds that sing 

your name would not leave me

 

con el corazon destrozado. I hear them 

even after they fly south for the winter.

 

A high note and a low note,

piercing the quiet before dawn,

 

when I think of us. No longer

two hearts beating,