I still drive by some houses and struggle
Not to picture her curtains in the windows
And our babies at the breakfast table.
This house, however, is punctuated with a cop car,
Parked in the driveway like an exclamation mark.
Wait, I don't mean a police precinct squad vehicle.
I mean it looks like the type of muscled out,
Dark, tinted car that a cop drives off duty.
The one he takes home, fingers twitching for
An unreliably absent weapon.
When her fingers twitch, it's in her sleep,
The universe unexpectedly giving me space to owe it something later.
"Here," it coos, "Have her amber voice - sweet, and dark, and clear, like translucent maple syrup. Here, have her failures; even they are controlled demolitions. Here, have her keyboard clicks; they are bullets. Here, have her orgasms; they use the tongue muscle in its entirety. Here, have her words; they are spoken darts, sprung from a barrel at top speed."
