Divorce

For 10 years, we suffered a printer that almost never worked.

A marriage, too.

1 for 5, we averaged, trying to print

whatever simple thing.

‍ ‍

Mountains of ugly origami —

white sheets sucked into that violent slit.

Took real wrist strength to pull it out!

Occasionally, it worked.

But never until I was shaking with rage.

Yet, we kept printing shit,

we did.

In the end…

it was more like a bad guest.

Snoring in our bed.

Triple-dipping.

‍

A soliloquy of cheese, I said,

and homophobia.

You knew nothing would kill me faster —

consumptive, bullish thanklessness.

A list of food sensitivities we rushed

to accommodate.

Do you remember the complaint?

Oh no, she had Mexican last night.

‍ ‍

Also. We love the gays!

You’re gay.

I spoke up eventually and said something.

Then, you said something, too.‍

You asked me to to stop saying something.

‍

Which is funny, since it killed you too.

Almost like a bad guest wears through

the hard logic of a man as quickly as it

does the silly hysterics of a woman.

Lolololol.

This bitter pill hurts my stomach, I said.

Among other things. Which I listed.

You blinked, bored.

Said, “And?”

(The serving platters are on Marketplace, for cheap.)

I’ll make do with a heel of bread.

Don’t even need butter.

The company of rocks

and shade.

I won’t complain about the wind,

who cares?!

‍ ‍

I’ll watch a single ant carrying a crumb —

oh, the strength it takes.