If I can wash my heart
like a white shirt
bleach out the blood stains
mend the holes from the backstabbing
take out the soil and the dirt
iron the wrinkles
hang it out to dry in the mild sun
of all the past summers
with their slanting afternoon light
and the smell of roses and geraniums burning to ashes
If I can inhale once again
its clean smell -
homemade soap and cotton
kissed by the fading sun,
maybe I would be ready to live again.
Or to, happily, die.
