Elizabeth Barbato is an English teacher at a small private school who lives with her husband and her dog, Maggie, in central New Jersey. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize three times, as well as for Best of the Net 2009. Her recent publications include poems in Little Red Leaves, elimae, and the anthology Eating Her Wedding Dress.

After The Men Have Left

They take all the dictionaries with them.
They leave us with a stub of a candle.
They slam down all the hinges.
Sometimes our fingers get caught.
Sometimes we make up death penalties.
We stand close not touching.
We think our own thoughts.
We don’t talk about the mess.
Sometimes we don’t cry until
we have to get down on our knees
to clean under the toilet seat.
That which has been impure
will now smell just like lemon
even though the only fruit in the house
is blooming mold on its darkening skin.