when I prise this photo from the wall.

What if I slid my fingers into the air

that sleeps under the print?

Will I need a knife to scratch off the remains of her face?

And the remnants of her shirt?

And the shards of glass she nearly drank from?

And what if I want to drink the dregs from that glass?

Or if I'm lured by the scraps of her shirt

to smell faint traces of perfume on the wall?

And what if she were to smile

when my fingers draw close to her lips -

were they kissing the wall

just as I was thinking of taking down her photo?

Why can't I learn from an artist

and quietly place her photo in a frame?

Did I need all these years

of wounding my fingers every day,

healing with my blood what I can't remove -

the remains of a photo

and a wall.