Saturday, April 3, 2010


Having never expected to marry, the divorce
came as an even greater shock. Fortunately my friend
had the courtesy to die, tragically, gracefully, right in the same week
that I signed the papers; I cried blessed tears and named
every one after him, pictured in detail his car going
over the bridge instead of the beautiful blond back
of my ex-lover’s head driving away, thought
in detail about how he’d suffered as he drowned, and in a way
it helped drown my own sufferings.

That summer I left everything, took a job overseas, finished
the work and went to Spain. Only a few days after
my twenty-second birthday a boy in the bar told me
he loved my skirt, danced too close, called me pretty.
That was all it took. The sangria went to my head and I
took his hand, we left the club, kissed on every park bench
we passed, went straight to the beach and he fell into me
much in the same way, I imagined, as that sweet boy fell
into those dark waters, and I didn’t shed a single tear.

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