Even then, on one of our first excursions, see her hand?
The one that is raised and waving good-bye?
I force myself to write poems of light and hope,
I spoon-feed myself the gruel of forgiveness,
when part of me wants to lay down in the street and wail,
stand outside her door and shout a fuckyou shout.
One that her new love will hear, that the neighbors will hear,
that her co-workers and clients will hear,
so that they will wonder about her, what she did to cause
and plant a seed with such a black and ferocious root.
This is the weekend we would go to Zinck's Inn,
these are the days of Berlin laughter and board games.
And now there are places I can never go, places
stripped from me forever. And I am angry, hurt.
I feel like I am digging dirt to fill in a hole that has no bottom.
Dark humus, as organic as anything I know.
Not planting a backyard garden nor contributing beauty--
like a pink dogwood tree or a patch of royal iris.
I am just lifting and turning, pouring soil into my empty spots.
Digging and digging, sweat like tears running down my face.
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