Dear Henry,

Yesterday, I found a small piece

of your aorta in my shower.

It spoke of Cherry Garcia ice cream,

whammy bars, and berlin.

I was just trying to wash my hair, Henry.

Trying not to remember things like peeing

like mixing drinks and saliva like the floor

of the closet on the fourth floor like 

your bedroom floor like the way you 

floored me when we first fell in love.

And all this hair stuck in the drain now.

Each strand a suffocation, no, no you cannot escape

shower tears blocked, and a low searing hiss.

Henry, I just closed my eyes.

I didn’t want to find a piece of my own

aorta in there,

too.