He is out on the back porch, on the phone with some other woman.
Some girl, she had the gall to call at five in the morning.
She must have known you were there, sleeping maybe.
It can only have been spite that drove her to telephone.
Heartless, disgusting, no class.

While he is out back (door closed,
shoulders rising, chill and drizzle of June rain coming on)
you wait a moment, then finish undressing and twist up in the sheets
thinking. The dark seemed thick when he put out the light, but
now your eyes adjust and it reveals itself hollow, ringing and grey.
The only things of substance, you trip on. She’s in that bed with you.
You said you didn’t want to know but now you do. You don’t know her but you think that you do.
How could you know that she had no plan? You could not know this—

that as her lips move now in imitation of communication she thinks of you,
of the embrace she’d give you. You’d leave together one morning, early—
clean out all your possessions, your letters, and go to Mexico, you and she.
She’s thinking of the note you’d leave him:
Sorry for everything. But don’t try to find us.


06.15.02