Marshall Mallicoat

For My Then-­Girlfriend

My little phone holds your face
in the distance where the birds
are just plucked eyelashes,
maybe an unclosed parenthesis.

From an airplane, we see the landscape
as a modest array of paint swatches.
The people become pointillist,
spittle from the idiot maw of creation,
a bit of food you lost in your clothes and wanted to eat.

If there aren't enough blueberries, and they're black—
If the stars are asterisks with footnotes to follow—
If I'm allergic to your cats and ugly with freckles—
If I touch your collarbone and break its wings—

It's just as well.
The pictures on my phone are yours.
With obliviated eyes I've seen us together:
(me) laid out in a deleterious sun
(you) cutting your nails, and letting them fly.