book of poetry (breakup)

the title page has a heart drawn upon its yellowish hue,

C+M on an arrow, almost but not quite covering

TEN POEMS: VOLUME ONE and I turn the page quick,

eager to see this play out,

not entirely sure which story I'm talking about.

the first poem is untouched,

perfect

with the kind of shiny sharpness well-cared-for books retain

although the sign askew next to it on the 50-cent table

read 12 yrs old and if it weren't for that it would've been new.

the second and third poems have a dog-eared page or two,

little indents where thumbs were pressed too hard into the words,

funny curves on the edges of the pages left over

from the times it was left upside down or opened on the bed,

balancing on the piles of her heels and his dress shirts.

the fourth and fifth poems are stained,

finger-shaped dots of grease marking the page numbers,

some smudged like they were noticed and patted dry

quicker than could be effective, for the book wasn't supposed to be

in her hands, wasn't supposed to be taken off its shelf

by anyone but him.

the sixth poem is bookmarked,

saved for another day for another week for another time

when he wasn't looking,

a silvery ribbon slipped in between the pages,

marred by a smear of raspberry lipstick like she kissed it

for another time.

the seventh poem is burnt,

a round hole charred in the middle of a word,

black and blacker, filled with ash long gone and when I touch it, I ricochet away

like the cigarette he threw that night,

for it still burns.

the eighth poem simply isn't there,

ripped so violently

out of its snug red threaded binding

that I can feel the tenderness, the tautness so painful

it screams for me to help, please, please notice

the one word left behind, circled around eight times

with a blue pen: breakup.

the ninth poem has been scribbled over,

looping cursive in thick black lines, not desperate anymore,

just the kind of calm that hardens your heart

to something that hurt you, the kind of calm

where you know you're not okay but you're safe in your heart and home,

12-year-old script that reads:

Left him.

Okay now.

the tenth poem is written in sobs,

dried dark spots where hot tears hit the paper,

followed by my own,

the liquid relief of two women at once twelve years and ten poems apart,

beautiful. Left him. Okay now.

Okay now.

I'm okay now.