Sunday, October 23, 2011

X's and O's

This poem first appeared in Bellowing Ark.

Blackberries from your ex-husband,
are never plump and juicy. He
will not cull the unripe pips, the ones
you argued about back when you were
still married. His bitter berries
bruise your tongue.

Bills always multiply,
never divide or
subtract, and the balance
loves zero.

Late at night, alone, you
fumble upward. Christ!
you cry, reaching
the big O.

Waiting at an intersection,
your lover speaks. I’m
Robin Hood, he
says. I steal from the
median if I see an endangered
plant. Sometimes I give
up looking,
he says,
and then there it is.

You draw an O in the center
square, trying to block four X’s.
You tuck the blackberries
behind the milk, hoping God
is still in the fridge, minding the

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