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I decided today
That I will no longer love you.
Like a jack-in-the-box
You sproing-sproinga'd
Into my heart
Anxious for confirmation
Quivering like a Chihuahua.
90 Days later
You do not recall who We are.
Or that you said you'd never leave.
Once, you held my face in your hands,
Adored me
Breathed my breath.
Nowadays
Garciaperra gets your admiring glances
While I fold your tee shirts.
You call me "hon' now,
Instead of Beautiful.
In the beginning
You admired the way I drive;
Two days ago, you yelled at me
In my own car,
Saying I was speeding.
Your voice was irritated
Much like 5-0 sandpaper,
Grittily abrasive.
Before, in the magic land
Of Initial Us
You called me often,
Just to hear my voice, you'd say.
Now, I curse the clock
Waiting for you to come home from work.
I tell myself every day
I will not shame myself by calling you.
And every day,
The piano wire
Of my soul twists in me
Until I do
The suspense of you saying
You should have called sooner
Too heavy on me.
I await,
A too-eager puppy
Tail oscillating
Like a fan blade
Hoping you will care enough
To pay the small change of
Some attention.
I am past the point of pride,
Now.
I abandon my dignity
Every night , at approximately
8:15 p.m.,
making novenas for the phone to ring.
I see you
On-line
After you say you are too tired to talk,
Attempting electronic seduction
With women who use letters instead of language.
Their profiles are caricatures,
Poor cartoons of human beings.
They get hours of your time
And I sit by the phone,
Exhausting excuses for you
One by one
Like petals off
An he-loves-me-not daisy.
I am a woman of substance,
I tell myself
And I deserve better,
I say.
Meanwhile,
My foremost thought is being wrapped
In your long lean arms,
Inhaling the aroma of your skin.
I consider your Childhood Trauma
And I spend hours
Barnes and Nobling
Peter-Pan Syndromes, Men Who Can't Love,
Encyclopedic works
On emotional unavailability.
I watch Oprah,
Thinking she will offer me solace.
When that research yields me no
Effective instrument
For fending off your indifference,
I begin considering My Childhood Trauma.
I go to the market,
Men try to pick me up,
Asking for my number as I weigh the green beans.
In traffic, they roll down their windows
Smiling, hanging out their
"I'm an attractive guy'" shingles
Hoping for one of my smiles in return.
A priest has propositioned me;
I have been the companion of mayors
And royalty,
And you tell me nine cents a minute
Is just too much to pay
To speak to me.
We make a game of noting how men look at me
When we are out together, you and I,
And knowing you are hardly my sole resource
Still
You ignore me.
I survey my body and face
Microscopically
In the mirror
Trying to ascertain
The origins of your discontent.
I think of how we made love
As if it were against the law,
When first we began.
Now, you roll away from me
Saying you are too tired,
And I try to master the art
Of noiseless weeping,
Being careful not to shake the bed
With my sobs.
Your preference
Seems to be for
Dirty little IM's
With dirty little women
Whose claim of being "in touch"
With their sexuality
Camouflages the fact that
They are brainless sluts
Who utilize intercourse
To validate
Their existence.
I am weary of you,
And your endless litany
Of reasons for hurting me;
And you have
A finite number of
Days remaining.
My lingerie, stocking and heels
Ache to be worn.
I am counting now.
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