Song of the Ex-Wife

Like a geriatric cat he disappeared

beneath the porch, into the briars,

into the ether. Or maybe the belly of a coyote.

Who fucking knows with that husband of mine,

that sad pelican of a man. That puffed-up toad

squirting blood from his eyes.

He had a picture of my chest

tattooed across his chest.

When our song came on the radio

he’d slam on the brakes and refuse to drive

until it was over, even if we were in the middle

of a busy freeway.

When he taught our babies to swim

he made them wear parachutes

instead of water wings.

That husband of mine? Oh, where should I begin!

He brought me flowers every night

and wouldn’t let me leave the table until

I’d swallowed every petal.

He bought me candy in heart-shaped boxes

and we’d go down to the bridge over the river

and chuck the truffles at passing barges.

In bed he’d knot his long, long arms

around my neck so tight I couldn’t breathe.

He appeared once on a TV game show

with a team made up of his other wives,

then blew it all on the lightning round.

That husband of mine would get drunk and 

buy billboard space and plaster copies of

his restraining orders across them.

Oh I could go on. Every night

he’d sing for hours to the babies

until they begged him to stop.

Finally he packed them all up into the Lamborghini

and drove to the Indian casino on the edge of town,

where he lost them all in a high-stakes game

of rock, paper, scissors. All the dealers knew

that my husband, that snake in the corn,

that rat in the china shop, that fat little

panting corgi of a man, would always only ever

pick nothing but scissors.