A cool-down precedes another
runaway from the resurfacing 

of every tiny ache and sting
she’s known—by choice 

or not. Good 

sleeping weather, she hopes
to leave unwelcome 

reverberation on her pillow,
hopes to be able to say 

what she means to the aerial view
she’ll wave away 

as the plane takes her
to a reunion with other scraps 

she left behind
by choice. It’s a risk—that word 

and its closest relations.