but first the poem

this shirt fits , i like the style
but it's too large for you-
another inappropriate gift.
i  hang it on my side of the closet
while you're out. you won't miss
what you didn't get.


wash  the bathroom walls down
with apple cider vinegar.
run the vaccuum, fold towels.
dust the picture of us when we first met
and only knew how to smile at each other.

i had a secret boyfriend once. he left
paeacock feathers in the fence at work
for six months. one day,
 there was half a display
mingled between fence and hedge,
even the down that grows
 skin close scattered irredescent
 across autumn piled leaves.
i gathered all i could see, weeping.


yesterday, a dozen blood red roses
in a heart shaped vase were left
 on the kitchen table for me to find
 when i woke up, along with that present
you meant to give me for christmas.
today i think they're advance apologia
for the way you punched a hole in our family
dinner last night. i know she's not yours. but she's mine.
she gave me chocolate this year.

sometimes when you're gone
i open the front door and let mosquitos in.
from an intricately colored glass vase,
peacock feathers spill,  pushed and pulled
 by a mild winter breeze. i want them
to fly  away with all the words we
use to clip each other's wings.