Poem for His Ex-Girlfriend

So what’s up? Where are you these days?
Last I heard you worked at a bakery.
Last I read your poems were lower case

with capital content. I used to like
to read them in the dark. It’s weird
you’re not his girl anymore.

You were the picture in a snow globe
on his desk that I’d go to, shaking,
when he left the room. That room.

Do you remember it? The Dr. Seuss
sheets read: “This is not good.
This is not right. My feet stick out

of bed all night.” We tried not to talk
about you. When we had to do it,
I made him go to a dyke bar

so everyone would be on my side.
In my mind you were so good
at everything, like walking.

I asked him if you had two legs.
What was I thinking? Of course
you have two legs. I asked him,

I guess, so that the possibility
of me would exist. He said yes
as if he was ashamed to admit it.

Does it make you feel better
to know he cheated with a handicapped
girl? I wonder if you have

any handicapped friends.
I don’t know why I’m using that word.
It demoralizes me. Or if you don’t.

Or if you’ve seen somewhere,
maybe in the bakery, a woman
with a limp and felt sorry.

Once in the dyke bar he said
he was waiting for you to
stand on your own two feet

and it was hilarious to me,
though it was a serious conversation,
so I could not laugh.

We never talk about you now.
It’s not allowed. We have to act all

I always liked you and thought
you were cool
and when I get to missing you

I pretend you’re in the room
and you forgive me and say
you always knew.


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