To Hera and divorce and polyamory
Sure, sweetheart, you fell in love with wine,
but that doesn’t mean you must slather it to your bones.
You can take new lovers. Knives, for instance.
And bread. Difficult shoes. Little blue pills.
Go grab your first bowie, then the buck, the chef’s.
Switchblades, pocket, paring, this butter knife.
You can submerge in a hotel bath, a drainage ditch,
some silent creek, the East River. The sea.
Eat that whole pan of pesto. The entire box of mints.
You can go down in mimosas.
You can lose yourself in Pound, or Sexton,
Frost, Yeats, Atwood. Even Hughes.
Even the boxer whose poems sewed you shut.
The boy whose hands pulled you from the red, red tub.
The boy who became boxer who became
man who became poet who became husband
who became stranger.
Yes, you can love the river. The knife. The pills.
The wine. The sea. Bend all the way in poetry.
My dear, you can love a thousand loneliness.
You can love a man and each of his feet.
Demolish his mouth like you would a chicken sandwich.
You can love the butcher around his meat hooks.
Love the brine and the meat
and all their tiny ruins.