* * *

I kept it--
lined pages scored
bound with metal spiraling

poetry
or
(poetry?)
You wrote that, underscored with zest
upon my page
which followed yours
and when I stopped
you wrote "encore"
with a stupid smilie face
a meager offering so sad
and yet, I let you in again
but I did it with you, mad.
My tears stained your pillowcase.

You said you liked it much that way
and I became more furious
as you pinned me down for more
tenderly, this time
as I
sobbed
before you slammed the door
as I picked up the pen, again.
And underneath, I underscored:

POETRY

emphatically
pressing urgency within
five pages stamped under duress.

I kept this. I'm a masochist.
I read it every spring
and taste
your sweat upon my lips
and how
the ceiling fan would wobble with
one blade missing, one blade bent
and how the windows were ajar
I'd say, "let them listen" and
you'd grin
and scream like a monkey
for the sake to provocate
the envy of those listening
to our afternoons of bliss.

I read the notebook, every year,
wondering if you think of me,
and our son that might have been
but for a pronoun's preference--

Not we
just me
precisely, "you"--
"What is it that you're going to do?"
i-guess-i'll-just-get-rid-of-it
and you said, "Do it soon."

Tonight I'm burning what is left--
of my pain and my regrets.
I kept it for the thoughtfulness
you'd written on a page or two
with stupid little doodles that
convinced me that you loved me too.

My God, I am an idiot--
but such a chid would be produced!
by poets playing badminton
every other afternoon
in the guest house lair
the room--
I think of you like you're still there...
as sour as my empty womb.

He would have been a man by now.

And not like you.

No, not like you.

These days I think I died with him.

Some days I wish that you had too.

* * *