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Our doubts, they choose us
single us out among the crowd
and follow us home

and we find them
rummaging in a well-lit closet
that reflects the half-mess
of our life choices
and their multicolored,
multi-season consequences

there, the bottle of perfume
a friend of mine had given me
as a souvenir from her
Masters in Math course
in Europe, back when we were
closer than sisters and
the farthest place I’ve set
foot on was a three-hour
drive south of my hometown

somewhere, the white crystal
earrings I wore on my wedding
that I bought from Kultura
with the last of my pesos
before I flew out, exchanged
everything for dollars
and haven’t returned

dresses that are too small
purses that are too young
fancy shoes that were made
for nights and dancing lights,
neither of which are still mine
empty boxes that pretty things
had come in
hangers hanging holding up
what I’ve spent myself on
possibilities folded on racks
maternity essentials, you know,
in case I get pregnant again

and that one bright lightbulb
fixed to the sloping ceiling
casting the lone realness
on everything it touches

and if I close the door
I am standing in a capsule
airtight and shielded from time
floating alone in dark,
lonely space
with maybe everything
that what I am
has come down to

and some mothballs
and faith

untitled photo
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