Much In The Same Way
that I’ve grown accustomed to pain, spreading like a subway
underground beneath the hole where I lived, when I was able
to live at all; I’ve grown accustomed to you
not loving me. Like neurons firing from the split
ends of my hair, if in fact neurons even live there
I am electric, soaked wet and raw, from salted wounds
and the injustice of it all—but much in the same way
we’ve all accepted no more Sunday dinners or hugs
or togetherness; I, too, have learned to live with lack
of a kiss, the absence of your lips, the pissed-off expression;
your hands removed from my hips. Just as we took a gigantic step
back from a swirling world of distraction, unsafe at last
I stood in the void of distance and the ache, of recalling roses
placed in an empty vase.
So, like Cupid resigned from a job she never had—
I’ll bury wings in our drawer; lie in silence in our bed.
Passenger
She feels the wind blowing in the wrong
direction. In passenger side
mirror, sees her reflection;
maybe the wrong person
sits behind the wheel.
Trapped, daylight fades.
Feeling small,
she thinks:
stay.