It was more likely that you’d hit
an artery or splinter the neighbor’s

picture window than find a way to divide
my pride at the perfect precipice where

possibility lifted above the crumbling
stories I had outlived. The day Jon left

his undershirt behind and I filled my breath
with his lingering absence, though my armor

was glistening with intent, I already belonged
to this scent. The animal of my body struck

by the good luck of your incision
which weakened me enough to believe.

There was no happily ever after, Cupid.
But you knew this when you chose

Jon for me: with each hit beyond
what we can tolerate, we are meant

to soften. Your strike survived.
It pierced all the way through

the shock of the wife and mother
I soon became back to that trail

of scent where our love began.
You broke me. And now I’m open.