THE ASK
It's easy to spot a man who's having an affair.
At least now it is.
Absence where the was once presence.
It starts out benign, nothing unusual.
Just a new friend.
The excuses mount,
the change dramatic, adoration replaced with distraction,
an empty, hollowed-out gaze.
Not present, no longer interested.
Then there’s the ask.
Even though he wasn't asking,
just telling, and not telling.
Do you mind if I pick her up at the airport?
Yes, I do mind.
He did it anyway.
And then I really knew.
It all fell apart like an overstuffed bag of groceries,
when the soggy bottom gives out and its contents spill everywhere,
embarrassingly so.
Broken eggs all over the sidewalk,
the now bruised pear, so lovely and protected only moments before.
Splat went my life, for everyone to see.
And me, on my hands and knees,
scooping up the slimy yolks with my bare hands.
There's a beauty when it all falls apart.
Strangers look with compassion,
their eyes tell me, “It’s gonna be okay,
you're gonna be okay."
THRILL
Her thrill, my fear.
It used to be my thrill, her fear.
My mother’s, that is.
And so it goes.
The swing’s four feet hopping off the ground,
just a little bit,
like a toddler playing jumping bunny.
I remember the day, watching, holding my breath,
as that magical rhythm clicked into place,
the top half and the bottom half of your tiny body
in conversation.
Bend, straighten, pump, bend, straighten, pump.
So high,
the few seconds of slacked rope,
when the stomach drops,
and the trees are sideways
and the smile is ear to ear.
The sheer thrill of it
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