Penetralia

She unpacks an endless suitcase
in a room she shouldn’t be in
the woman on the bed cries, “This situation,
you don’t understand,” the woman on the bed is her.

She pulls out clean clothes, dirty clothes
old clothes neatly folded
unfamiliar clothes
that she somehow knows are hers.

A crowd gathers to watch
hovering over her as she removes
evidence of life, receipts, used tissues
the debris of getting on with each day.

“The trick,” she tells herself
lotus-legged and wise
from her position on the bed
“is not to unpack too much at once

not to pour out your heart
when there’s nowhere to pour it
no one’s cupped hands for it to trickle into
be held gently in for a moment

before it’s handed back
more than just neatly intact.”

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