On the day I get junk mail addressed to you
for the first time since you moved out,
I also find a clump of your hair
in one of the cabinets, under the pots
and pans. At least I think it’s your
hair. Not sure who else’s
it would be. Upon observing
patterns on your social media,
I see you’re listening
to all those sad songs again:
You used to love me /
I sent you a letter /
please come back home
and so on. But you’re
the one who left. I’m sure
you could come up with something
more accurate to blame me for. Same day
I also encounter some birds on my walk
and remember how you said
there were no birds here,
that it was freaky waking up
to silence. No signs
of life. I think you were
just trying to come up
with reasons to leave.
When you hung up
the birdfeeder, I was jealous,
can you believe it? Jealous of
the birds. All they had to do
to get your attention
was stay so quiet you thought
they weren’t around.
Ellie Black is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Mississippi, where she also received her MFA. Winner of the 2023 Pinch Literary Award in Poetry, she has work published in Washington Square Review, The Drift, Ninth Letter, Mississippi Review, The Offing, Best New Poets, and elsewhere.