Sometimes I wonder
what would have happened
if your eyes chose to see
what I carry in this bag
of memories where I hide
the ticket stub of my first broken heart
nestled near the scrap of a paper napkin
from the feast that ate
me inside out,
my body taken
as nourishment until
only crumbs remain.

Would you see the bit of dried mushroom
I saved from my burial
beneath the cedar duff
after you left me
amid the weeds and poison oak
along the beautiful coast
where we fell deeper
until the salt water washed us apart
and I saved a drop
to put in my bag?

My second broken heart.

I keep a piece of you.
Someday I will eat it
and find my redemption.