You marked off your love for me
with gentle creases on the corners of pages.
These tiny folds spread over my manuscripts
like narrow streams carved by every rain drop
since the last glacier quarried our tiny lush hill.
You marked off your hate for me
and your jealousies
with erratically torn pages and pools of six foot deep black ink.
All these censorships spread over my manuscripts
like hastily dug graves for innocent murders—
sprawling across satellite photos
as artificial craters and land locked lakes.
And so you leave behind your great legacy
across my written landscape.
Be assured that I thank you.
I am certain that for you
it was far more labor to sort through—
than it ever was for me to write.