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my breath is short in the grocery aisle
i review my list
they don’t have the whipped cream i want
at home, by the sink
the wet washcloth behind my eyes starts to wring
i text her to see if this is her sadness
projected two-thousand miles
i rationalize:
could be hungry
cut open the orange
bless it and me
she doesn’t claim the sadness
but wrestles with open wounds
i come on too strong:
obligation could never produce forgiveness
i can’t see it another way
the juice rolls into broken skin
i expect it
i tell you every day you leave for work:
“i don’t like it but i accept it”
today my legs are tight
the heat is off
i keep wearing your buttonless sweater
meanwhile
she dreams of concrete
pouring a new beginning
finally coming back to herself