by Frankie Collins
I shift my weight from right to left.
Feet on cold green linoleum,
my toes curling to keep balance.
Two words, “he left,”
so small and quick,
sit in my belly, rocking,
back and forth.
Not like the bowling balls
that made-for-TV movies
would have you imagine,
more like the loose change
or linty cough drops
at the bottom of our mother’s purses.
It took one frigid day and five thousand,
eight hundred, and twenty eight miles
to do the quick work of slicing,
the thirteen thousand, three hundred,
and seven days spent building,
The nothing left
can’t be left.