A Girl, A Dog, and the End of the World
I heard you when you left,
picked my head up from the pillow
pushed away the curtain.
Held my tongue and watched
as you slammed the car door
put it in reverse
and drove backwards,
tires smoking,
down our dirt road.
At first, I thought of crumbling,
rolling myself in a ball and
sobbing until my eyes were swollen shut,
staying in our bed
for as long as it took me
to grow thin,
a week, maybe more,
but then I realized the dog would starve too.
There is plenty to live for
when you have a hound.
I walked my bare feet to the kitchen.
My anger smoldering,
realizing what you had stolen
the tea kettle, the oven mitts, and my heart.
Did you grab them on your way out
or had you thoughtfully
packed them away in the suitcase
hidden under our bed
until it was time for you to go?
Water boiling in the saucepan
I poured a cup of tea,
walked around the empty house
searching for clues why you'd leave.
Was it because I left the flower pots dry,
my empty your coffee cups in the sink,
wet towel on the bathroom floor?
Were these reasons enough for you to go?
Or perhaps I hadn’t loved enough?
Kisses perfunctory instead of passionate?
Legs no longer wrapped tightly around yours.
Making love out of habit instead of desire?
The tell-tale signs of an affair
gone stale with time.
It came to me that
we needed a new kettle anyway,
the old one full of rust and no longer whistling.
The oven mitts tattered,
burning fingers every time I used them.
My heart, however,
also damaged goods,
And then the car returned,
slowly made its way back
up the road.
I half ran, half danced to meet you.
Instead of roses you carried
a shiny kettle and new oven mitts,
and along with them
you returned to my heart.
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