ARCHEOLOGY

BY ELIZABETH GRICE, ’15

I wonder if you remember
the night you got so high
that you held my hand.
You laid your old photographs
across your bed like flashcards
and tried to remember the
contents of the love you lost
in the move from your old apartment.

You dug up other things
that used to be
important:
a key, a record, a ring
that she used
to wear.

We had gone past
the loose dirt.

Touch was the only way to heal
what we were uncovering.

Yesterday, a friend asked
if I had heard from you.
I told her that someone told me
that you had moved to California
to escape the winter.
You liked it there,
I remember.

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