It Isn't Yours

There’s no comfort for you by the water.

I’ve drowned too many of your old things there.

I thought I’d tell you now

before you rush to me,

cheeks chapped

rough like brick,

and tell me about how

the water is shot through

with arrows the color

of the sunflowers

in my old room,

the ones that arced

above your bedspread:

that’s gone too.

Don’t tell me about them.

I know how they looked,

heads torn off, little

yellow pennants.