Divorce

Divorce 

The past crumbles;

a single pinpoint of light

and he sees you,

your image breaking into

that of a kaleidoscope.

Your skirt gets stuck on a corner

of color, he snatches at it,

forgetting you are a mirage—

the really thirsty die at your feet—

the last they see is the plum

of your toenail.

He moved from you

to another woman

as fast as someone

screams Huckleberry.

He married her. No one

knows if there was regret.

Regret is an odd thing,

it’s always after the fact

like a two hundred dollar pair of boots

in the rain, the heel separating

from the sole. Glue isn’t always

strong.

You thought marriage

was forever. Taught your daughters

this…he did too.

Everyone is left with empty papers,

only lines ending at the edge.

Of course he didn’t come to your funeral.

Was he sad at your passing?

A piece of bacon sizzles beside a grilled cheese;

both interfere with the flavor of the other.

Your hair was frosted not dark at the time

of your death. He wouldn’t know that just as

he wouldn’t know that you forgave him

only because you could, only because

the knot of him on your heart

took your breath away, leaving you

clinging to air like a beggar woman does

to her grocery cart filled with blankets

and egg cartons.

He know has passed.

Will he find you again?

Most think not. The new glue dried

before the heel could attach to the sole,

before lines of o’s could be signed

to the empty page, and before the beggar woman

would realize the eggs are all gone.

Fertilizer settles on the grass.

It is going to be a late spring.