April 16: Erasure

Erasure

I took the best line
out of my poem
yesterday. Promises shave
poems, make them wedge
the truth. That line, not
on the page, the silent
one that can't be spoken
reminds me of her order.
I wish, I could
make no promises,
no signatures like laundry,
dried in the dark sun,
wrinkled in the sharp air,
folded on a divided page.