For 30 years you muscled onto my calendar
in red ink. And always the week before your arrival
I slept badly, adrift in a lightless fog,
till you showed up and twisted my guts into knots.
Each month you cracked that red whip,
and, baby, I never failed to jump.
So many times I wanted to do myself in
days before you dropped by, but now I guess I’ll outlast you:
the widow’s revenge. And when you’re gone for good,
I’ll clean out my closet, flaunt a white skirt and sip
red wine without spilling. I’ll dream of grenadine,
kisses of saffron and poppy—but never you.
Photo By: Ira Gelb