5 cents is what I charged for that softly, swaying hammock,
but I decided if you wanted the salty air or the kisses made there,
there’d be a considerable markup. I make Margaritas on mornings
when there’s going to be a sale and slowly drink my way through
people searching for bargains in the assemblage of my life.
The bedsheets we first had sex in are a good deal.
The mirror that fed my anorexia is free to whoever promises not to abuse it.
The loaded gun is a give away. You can take it with the barstool;
they’re just wasted things, small crimes that come with a cost
whether I mark them or choose to not.
The lightbulb I didn’t turn on when I chose someone new,
leaving you in the dark is another steal. A penny,
nobody wants a reminder for something that they don’t have an excuse for.
The coffee maker, the painting I bought to cover a hole in my heart
there all here on the front lawn, just waiting for someone to come
and toss it in a pile with some old clothes and something new
I showed you but never had the chance to use.
My old laugh is near the sweaters.
My flannel I lent you the first night you slept over is next to the old popcorn maker.
The yoga mat is a steal. Too many memories
worn like the stains of a puddle on a white shirt
from those days when I did not understand how peaceful life was
in the arms of the girl who does yoga. I feel like when all this is gone,
I will know what is missing, but I cannot sell
the way I noticed you in the doorway the first time.
The look on your face after my first small crime.
I wish I could sell an apology, that would only be offered to you.
The rest of it can go. The only thing I would not sell right now
is the idea of letting go of your hand
that’s simply off the table. I’ll always own that
because I will always recognize that as something I’m missing.