Again
I stand in a dying field watching
a glitter fall of bird wings
Every change of season I find myself
where flowers wilted. It’s growing old
visits, revisits, holding hurt
I tell my husband I’ve buried.
My therapist said an affair takes
seven years to exit a body
uncurl our fingers from fists,
and I would forget the urge
to run, dig up every flower bed, light
every house on fire and burn.
I worry my marriage is a fire poppy
and I the arsonist. I kill
the countryside just to see
the buds bloom.
