Since 1996 Volume XXI
Leslie Anne Mcilroy
Ides of March
The lover in me left without a note,
a stray hair, a stocking in the drawer.
Her scent is on your fingers, not mine.
I donít miss her or her panties, or her lies.
How she said she would love you forever
and wore your shirts to bed, how when she
started packing, she called it laundry,
cleaning up. How she let you take her
to dinner and spent night after night
drinking wine, reading you poems
like portent, and between the pages,
a rail ticket, the binding of straw,
between the words, another home
without you in it, without me.
Copyright, Leslie Anne Mcilroy.