All the Lost Things Kitri Lindberg

ALL THE LOST THINGS

Kitri Lindberg

I blamed myself for your mistakes

i am starving, i am clamoring, i am on my knees–for the nape of your neck, and the curls that ride there

like weeds, for the scent of that space beneath your chin and the stubble that grinds against my cheek, for the flush

that creeps against your cheekbones and the sweat that congregates on your hairline, i am devout for the

callus-uncallous diversion of your fingertips, the intricate quilt of the plaque on your teeth and the sweet red fruit of your gums,

i am a nun for the temple of your furrowed brows, i am a beggar at the cottage gate of your parted lips, i am, i am, i am

a fragrant weed at the bridge between your earlobe and your ear, a small lost child found on the black debris floating on your warm iris–i am smattering for the hammering of your heart, for the wet words of your mouth, for your mouth, for your mouth, for your mouth–i am all the gone things, all the past things, all the rainy things, i am–lying in the backseat of my car alone, listening to the thunder above the roof.

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