by Midya Tsoy
Anger like a beet that day.
He left the unmade bed the photo of us ice-skating for the first time
torn in half on the night stand.
My ego says goodbye.
Tranquillity like the air I breathe after the lid of a jar is taken off.
Five years too long. I have wanted to break loose so let me be.
The gashes I wear:
first tug first goodbye. When I said stay he left.
Returned and I held the front door wide open again. The second tug.
He didn’t stay.
He engraved in me like his “I love yous” etched into my head.
I thick root too far in
until I am pulled out of the dirt.
From the earth I am born, erupting.
Don’t look back at the thrown out Frank Sinatra CD
and Duffy’s episodic love story Rapture that keep my sleep from me.
I don’t miss you. I won’t.
I will sit in the only place you never walked down in my laundry room.
Make a cup of coffee and listen to the swishing of clothes I rediscovered
from my closet you hated. My grenadine skirt and blouse of guipure lace…