The new couple downstairs, circled
by their gleaming grill, deck furniture
and potted herbs arranged just so,
clink their plates after dining alfresco,
then rest together, and talk of the baby.
I trace a pale shadow on my ring finger
with my thumb the way I used to trace
my ring. His half-packed boxes line the walls
of our tiny walk-up. The ring hums
too loudly in my jewelry box.
I’m done with the courage
I’ve needed for the last year.
The new couple doesn’t know
I’m up here stewing through the screen.
Or that once he leaves, I will drive
a butcher knife through the couch cushions.
Gulf Stream Magazine 