Oh, I remember that night,
everything packed and loaded
in the car, my third move in four years
because my sorrow fit nowhere I lived.
I sat on a cement step, my back
against warm brick, drinking
the last of the wine from a paper cup.
My husband was living our life
with someone new and I was headed south
into an unknown as gray as my car.
Lemon-yellow stars blinked overhead.
One shot across the sky. I wished
he’d come racing back, up the stairs
two at a time. I wanted him to want me,
a wish that never came true. I left
a long trail of addresses until I found one
with a light in the window, someone listening
for my step on the porch. Our wedding
picture is framed in silver and sits beside
a crystal vase of bright yellow daisies.
writes prose and poetry. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, Survivor’s
Review, A Year In Ink (San Diego Writers, Ink Anthology, Volume 1), Passager, Magee
Park Poets, Pearl, and ONTHEBUS. Her story “What I Don’t Tell
Him” aired on National Public Radio. She has twice won a San Diego Book Award.