Your branding iron hovers over me
as if there were only one way to give
up hope. The lawyer has advised me
who owes what. How we can expect
to be judged. There are precedents
for everything in the unwinding of
yours from mine. I know there have been
endless sons shuttled from half-home to
half-home that won’t add up to anything
whole. That this empty crib is a minor
chord thrumming through a great chorus
empty rooms. And I know my grief
is as common as a grocery store, overflowing
with hopeful rows of bright promises
not yet opened. But hear this, Divorce.
I made love a boat, and we all piled in.
When you come for me,
I’ll still be rowing.