Single, not lonely

I guide the first-years

maybe fifty miles away

from you, in a pastoral painting

of peaks and model pines.

Others brought their spouse,

hanging off each other

like tied laces. I prefer sandals.

But the kicking of my heart

is cool, calm as naps with novels.

You were away, just another face

to recognize, another name to forget.

But these couples can’t derail

the trains I send off, eyes closed,

waiting for the truth to hit

like tons of metal and steel.

Stolen novel; please report.

My man is away, isn’t even mine,

but has filled the holes riddled

through my heart

as though the crumbling ruins

I hide inside were always royal,

a Scottish castle

pictured in those childhood fancies

that always end the same—

happily ever after.

Worn down, not desperate

One last kick in the jaw,

bloodied and squinting,

spitting out a tooth

and my lion pride.

The task prowls, smells blood,

smiles like a sliver moon.

The task circles like vultures,

cawing in triumph in a tune

that smells of failure—naked,

sweat-streaked, wide-eyed failure.

Sink or swim—and I can’t stomach

another cup of salt, can’t cry

another glass. Run aground,

the ship eating the shore like a funeral,

train wreck. You won’t see this,

I might not see you again,

I might not leave the hole,

might not…