by Beth Woodcome
This morning the three dogs shat
on the floor and thatâ€™s what I woke to.
Before I even woke my body took itself
in, took it in like an immediate mother would.
Not every mother, but letâ€™s get back to you.
One dog is now sleeping at my feet.
I know how that feels, that shame.
This is my sixty-seventh postcard.
Each time, when I say
I wish you were here
I mean to say I donâ€™t know if youâ€™re real
or intend to hurt me by having a body I canâ€™t get to