Week One

I picked you from a brood of faxes:
blurred letters, blurred past,
You were mine for a week.
A faintly positive called ‘chemical’ and
they said your DNA just didn’t add up,
so the interjections, the fullness, the glottal stopped and you left.
Back in the fields grasping for gleaned grain
it’s never too early to grieve, stuck in traffic,
staring at pint-sized, van-dalized nuclear doodles smiling,
I wonder what they call you–those that know you now.