It's not just the pretty words or how he seems to read
her heart; it’s the way he kisses her wedding ring,
says he loves her more than love.
Calls her muse, scribbles in his notebook when they’re
in bed; knows everything she is and everything she's not.
They sit on the fire escape, share a cigarette, the sun a dull
ache, the rattle of the A-train full with commuters dreaming
of home. He’s there-not-there. She can’t interpret the wind,
translate birdsong. They’re left with a rebuke
from the sky, they’re full, yet starving. She knows he’s
a magpiecharlatanthief, feels his words trickle down
her neck. He lies in ways that don’t matter.
When his poems are published, stark black against loud
white; she feels immortal, beautiful; convinces herself
they’re not for his wife.
Alex Stolis lives in Hudson Valley, NY.
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