You entered the bedroom and fell to your knees.
I wait the rest of my life to hear you say, I made a mistake.
Inside my chest, a mangle.
Inside yours, a deflating balloon.
You took the vacuum cleaner, the ironing board, the dish rack
and left me some lint, an iron to scorch shirts, one chipped plate.
I would like to say at least we perfected
entrances and exits, like professional stage actors
honing their craft, but even that’s a fantasy.
Mostly on TV the lions ate the hyenas
but sometimes the hyenas
formed a posse, and tore a lion up.
Occasionally you came in out of the rain
and I was glad to have you.
I am weirdly obsessed with breakup poems, in spite of the fact that I absolutely adore S. Terrible messy things just continue to fascinate me. I never did like dissecting frogs or things in school, but I like dissecting these. The interesting prose-y-ness of this; the way the tense switch in the first couplet conveys the sense that she is, even now, still waiting.