Spanish poets discuss the breaking of things over a meal of fresh baked bread. They scrawl their list on handkerchiefs, carve it into the wood of the table. Let it soak in the wine that is spilled with the laughter. The un-starched shirt collars and the orchestra of silverware.
I thought I might send her the postcard of Madame X but instead, I spilled coffee on it.
It sat on my bedside table brandishing a threat of pale undress.
That time on the beach in Spain.
Muddled mint and sugar cane.
When he and I didn’t do enough drinking and thus decided to stop being friends.
Without the formality of announcing it.
Denial is the weapon of the vocal cords
The inner dialogue,
The ache exists only after we admit it
I never used the shiny things you bought me.
I grew tarnished, spotted. I was a shining thing once.
Why must you just stand there not thinking about me.
You give good headache
Take off your clothes.
I am more than all the loves I have lost.
My 5 year plan is to stop living in the past.
Then love calls, just to say
Please convince me not to buy an apple pie.
Love came home with a wheeze lunged smile, the exhale tumbling past it.
and I said,
You smell like sweat go wash your face
and he said,
I forgot to tell you what happened on the way home! I was rounding the corner by our house biking behind a little girl and her dad-I assume it was her dad-but she was in a little child’s seat behind him in her little pink helmet. When I sped up past them she turned around and she was singing.