The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: tether & lung by Kimberly Ann Priest

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What’s Left

Imagine I am petting the soft head of a white peony,
full bloom, first cutting—holding it

in the hollowed-out crook of my arm, like an unbroken
egg, afraid of its yolk—the small chance

that it might leak inside the membrane,
and as soon as I open the shell, its once whole soul

will spill out onto the floor. And I,
in my hurried foolishness, quickly cleaning the mess,

rinsing it into a garbage disposal
until its last string of yellow goo is sucked

through the drain’s black rubber teeth,
as I stand over it in horror, shell fragments littering

the countertop like torn petals, all that is left of you—
a sick reminder of me—

while the room grows wild with arms waiting to touch you,
and I want them to touch you,

take you far away from my negligence. It happens
so fast: the hospital gown, the heaving, all your shattered

pieces scattered in my lap, the bed begetting ghosts.
My hands screaming for what’s left.

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