Out here, it’s not the dead grass where you sprayed
weed killer, or the kidney-shaped pool burping
with algae. And it’s not the girl who’s half my age.
It’s not my décollete that the makeup counter girl
says is crêped. It’s not R.E.M. on the radio, our friend
Stipe’s singing slurred. It’s not even the shimmed
Silence wedged between us years ago. It’s all
the moments we could have healed ourselves but didn’t.
I wait for you to speak. The papers have not been signed.
All this isn’t worth it, you say. You wave your hand
through the air, cigarette ash flying, the smoke a gauzy
legacy and I glance over the neglected roofline, the house
we bought together, the life we had. I nod. Yes, yes.
It’s just stuff. But I don’t mean it. You grin. The sky
has possibilities. Your muted voice trails your last
drag as you exhale it across the neighbor’s fence,
and we watch blinking planes traverse twilight.
The contrails bloat like sponges, dimple in the vista.
