Poetry
Woman to Woman
At the Old Colony Tap, she and I are having one of those
uneasy talks that women have when no one else
will listen. Her ex, who is my ex, is in jail
pacing past bars until he is released
for the umpteenth time, while we inhale
cigarette after cigarette over the subject of him,
though I’m still trying to stub out my past
that’s smoldering behind me.
Look, I say, quoting Kunitz, exhaling smoke
from my fourth cig, there is this thing inside him
that won’t stop chewing you, but there’s still time
to run before you see what he’s done.
I tell her this, but she’s too hopeful to hear.
I heard what you did, she says. You called the cops
after he broke into your house in the dark.
She is like this: all hungry and hopeful. I am that woman
who will always have patrol lights reflected in my eyes.
Going back, I say, lighting up again; going back
is like climbing into a burning building and saying,
I know that the smoke alarms work. Her eyes,
