It feels like whoever lives
here never moved in. Like
a bare bulb switched on in a vacant
back room. Like a portrait of a stranger
hung on an otherwise blank
box of walls. We all live
some days like a body with no
head and others like a head with
no body. Where do our missing
halves go? Can we text them or
something, send selfies? I hope
mine sends one back, looking
just like an angel, or, I suppose,
looking like what’s left of one.