Transition to Divorce



Each room is more airy.

The bed as expansive

as the ocean. The nightstand


holds only a reading lamp.

One less alarm clock

blaring at 5:00 a.m.


I sleep longer now.

The half-empty closet,

his cologne-smell dissipating.


I buy less food,

cook fewer dinners.

I watch little TV.


Like the ceramic bowl

where he threw his loose change,

emptying his pockets after work,


my mind fills up

with memories.

The good ones prominent


as if running for office,

and make the bad ones

weak candidates, barely visible.


Cycles of regret

start again when I awake,

having forgotten


the empty spaces in my house.

And still I know

there is no going back.