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Natasha Simons
When the love affair is over,
they tell you: drink mead. It’s historic.
Maybe it’ll make you feel connected
to a larger part of something, instead of
floundering around, crying in public.
When you head cross-country,
and you end up in some Kansas bar:
a girl will say Hello to you.
you’ll say Hello back.
some tangled sheets later, you’ll say Goodbye.
You won’t make it any further than Kansas.
When I find out some months later that you are ready,
ready to let me take you back:
I will indeed feel connected to a larger part of something.
It is the club where the deceived gather,
and the blinder on fools is lifted briefly.
Until the next love affair.
You used to call—static.
Sweetie? I am breaking up—Listen to me—
I can’t make it tonight. Order Chinese.
I was the labyrinth. Hello minotaur.
Everyone watches their moments catch
and they take what they can but do not give.
The shoes in my neighborhood are slung over the lamp-posts.
When they fall, some people re-use them.
You loathed me in the mornings
but also craved: morning sex and morning affection.
Sometimes you’d cry.
Help me understand this.
I can’t not know this.
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