Mrs. T. Contemplates Divorce

Gone.
And then you were here, nonchalant
Smile on your lips, making dinner.
Swear to God you must have been
A figment of the imagination,
A most subtle conquerer.
You left your spectacles on the
Cistern, that old, old, trope.
You knew best how to insinuate your
Presence — everyone eats and shits,
After all — and it appears that Freud
The pervert was right, right, right.
Ingenious how you dealt
With that last foetid bastion —
Sex — there, wrote it, you made me
Feel you by its absence as my body
Lay on fresh sheets and
You tossed the sofa cushions aside
To make space.
But there is more than one hole, and
Out of another symbols are
Dropping like milk teeth into cupped hands.
Their weight and your laundry got
Too heavy to bear. Did what could be done,
Bought a new dryer, place is
Practically a 3 star hotel.
You took a leaf from Kerouac anyway, tortured
Look in your eyes — your spectacles?
Next to the faucet — and
You were deleted like so many
Lines of bad poetry. Tried to search
For your remnants (Never been a
Good writer) and found only a heapful
Of cushions, a wrinkle in the
Sofa, and a book you left
For me that I’d
Already read.

Published in Ceriph #2