Second chance. By H. Gerber

There are days

the best days

when I get dizzy

with the realization

that I am not still married;

trapped like a mouse in glue

to that gentle failure

and can I even begin to write about 360 pounds of sad

and need

and defiance for not being

fully accepted as he was,

every heavy fold of brown skin

the two moles that sprung from above each eyebrow making him

devilish in a way no woman would fall for,

except me

because if he was the beast,

I for once

got to be the beauty.

There are days

the best ones

where I look at my child

and don’t know how I got so lucky,

perhaps a dream

and I am still in that big new house

alone waiting

for my happy drunk to wander in

2am, 3

and I am thin and carry a big rock

like a weapon on my finger

my hair in tendrils that don’t yet

need for paint to hide the brittle white.

Youth was leaving me in any case, and now

though I cling to it

more than I should

I also taste no ruin

on my tongue

and no shame

for what I did to get away.