To His New Wife

I know far better than to ever say never.
Too, this kind of love will never not be hard.
It’s the bottle of costly oil, missing one shard
from its threaded glass rim, I passed my finger over
again last night, opening a freshly blood-filled rift.
Or the bird I saw of late, perched on the sill,
face turned towards the house, ominously still,
and waited for it to shake loose its wings, lift
clear, and fly off free – which it will never do.
Indeed, I found it later lying on its side, one eye
already hollowed out by ants. I’ve learned to say goodbye
to whatever won’t come back, was never true.
I will answer any question you want to ask. That door
stands always just a bit ajar. In spite of what he might
have told you, my mind is sound. I would not lie.
He would. But you must satisfy yourself on that score.
I wish you and your husband abundant joy, if ever
such a thing can come to pass. I think it can’t. And oh, the boy.
Your tiny boy. I don’t know how this world works, why
he came instead when, in truth, our man desired a girl –
someone who’d gaze and fawn and yearn, a pet to spoil.
Perhaps he’s finally found what he sought in you.
And yet, your sudden frantic message out of the blue
six months ago suggests you now know something of my toil.
Well. I leave you here. Your face is fair, you have some
letters after your name. Your way lies open, however it seems.
I hope you’re crisp, sharp, free from groggy dreams.
I wish you a wise serpent to destroy your rotten Eden.

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