​​Of leaving: nothing ever lasts
but odd habits and those rancid
bits of love’s lonely power grid
held hostage. Having survived blasts
of rage, battered enthusiasts
patch their holes and hope to mend. Did
you ever observe an eyelid
twitch from the inside? We outcasts
share these tales. I unlock the door,
step out into rain. How easy
to forget what we’ve lost, what we’ve
never held. I will sweep the floor,
wash dishes, cook, pick up debris,
set it aside, regret, heal. Grieve.

---

Robert Okaji is a displaced Texan living in Indiana. He holds a BA in history, served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, once won a goat-catching contest, and is the author of multiple chapbooks, including the 2021 Etchings Press Poetry Prize-winning My Mother's Ghost Scrubs the Floor at 2 a.m. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Threepenny Review, Book of Matches, Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art, Buddhist Poetry Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Purifying Wind, Wildness, and elsewhere.