He wants me wide open
open-hearted, spread wide, open-
mouthed for him, he wants
another devotional.
But he doesnąt know
that the other night when I
went to light the gardenia
scented candle, I opened
a matchbook on his bureau
and found scrawled in violet
ink some Teri’s name and number
(that’s Teri with an I).
And the next morning
when I looked the matchbook
was gone from his bureau
and he doesnąt smoke
unless he’s been smoking with
Teri (with an I) or
other women whose names
end in terminally cute vowels.
And one night his hair
freshly washed, supposedly at
the gym, smelled like some
tropical flower Body Works shampoo
no guy would be caught
dead buying. I kept quiet.
I’ve kept on humming.
I’ve been acting lovey-dovey,
all mooney, Juney, crooney tuney,
but for him now there’s going to be
no fucking love poem.