PoetryMagazine.com
BACK 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 don’t 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.
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Copyright, Leslie Anne Mcilroy. |