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You are not her anymore, the girl in the bedroom


strumming chords, singing words that still mean something

to her, that still have power to reach across anything

to find that boy and make him worthy.



But I hope that sometimes, your husband wonders where you are

when he’s unable to pierce your clouded look,

and that you can’t tell him you loved someone hopeless

until you could only abandon his shadow.



I hope you tell stories with my name in them

quickly brushing it aside, as if I was a stranger that stopped

at your doorstep with encyclopedias under his arm.



I’m not proud that I promised you everything,

even at the moment of leaving. Nor do I apologize,

as I meant every word, as much as any unbeliever can.

If you were here I’d promise it all again



and leave you on your porch swing waiting.

A better man would wish you well and happy, but I only

want you reasonably well, provided for, yet occasionally

disconsolate, watching from your window for



that stranger to appear in the long dirt road, on his way

to bust your whole life open, ready to leave the kids

hungry at the table wondering where their mother went,

with no explanation ever coming close.