I liked your suit. You liked my hair.
Those dull words drew us into a marriage
of empty routines, thousands of times
we rose from the same chairs, mutual
considerations that became as much
standard behavior as feeding ourselves.

Our marriage shrank to the size of a hand.
I heard our smothered screams
in all eight rooms, a relationship burned
down to the size of a cigarette butt
small enough to lose in the grass.

I planned to be the consummate wife,
but you immolated yourself with alcohol,
fell down stairs, broke your collarbone,
eyes looking out at nothing.

These days, I no longer hide truth
about space widening between us.
To think I was afraid to sew, afraid
you would see a habit you despised,
a fragment of my behavior that bothered.

At one time, you and I, a lawn, and
a garden meant everything. We have to spit
out the past like a wad of chewed tobacco,
accept that fields once surrounding our house
are overgrown with apartment buildings.

You see, I was tightening the lid on a Mason jar
the other day, autumn light blossoming
through the kitchen window, realized
we were both at the end. It was difficult
for me to tighten the lid. Nowadays, my wrists
are not as strong as when we married.
The kitchen smelled of tomatoes and fate.
I knew what it meant: I would pick up sewing
again, leave you to your beloved fields
that aren’t even there anymore.