By Autumn Collins

Hastily thrown together,

The contents of the last box

From the last trip to the old apartment,

Now his,

Spill on the bed in a grand finale.

Unexpectedly,

Among the stamps and loose change,

His cock points at me

From the corner of an old Polaroid.

How strange an accusation

That is both ridiculous and sad.

A small flipbook of images here

That are no longer rightfully mine,

But I don’t know how to look away.

Wickedly bound and bent

I can’t make sense of which way is up or down.

Faded and foreign,

They are silent pornography

In a dead language.