I canceled plans, a text.
Cold morning floors, a pulled shade,
medicated ointment’s sting,
Crow’s feet in a mirror
hung before I was born.
I shouldn’t talk about the throbbing, finger condoms,
the high of pain relief.
Like, as a married woman,
I shouldn’t talk about my first love’s.
backseat overdose. The droplets
on the window, the smell, his bloated body.
The day the search-and-rescue Facebook page
became a memorial, I got my period
and ate popcorn. He wanted kids.
The kernels burst like shrapnel.
I took an Epson Salt bath and drank wine.
Fumbling, musky sheets, real as the bed under our backs, veins, hands.
Over, he listened to the voicemails.
I thought he’d get married
and teach his kids to play soccer.
I pull in the salt. I push.
An adjunct professor for Fairfield University English Department, Kathryn V. Jacobi's writing has appeared in Cease, Cows, Statorec, and Hysteria Anthology. She has poems forthcoming in Pudding Magazine and Fjords Review. Her poem, "Soapbox," received first place for the Hysteria 2016 poetry contest.
