A poem is not the lonely house.
It is not last night’s clothes
crumpled in the corner or
books scattered over the disheveled comforter.
A poem is not the movies
she binge watched waiting for him
to call or his hands on
her body when he finally stopped by.
A poem is not the pregnancy
test on the bathroom sink
or her cuddling the toilet
while she releases her breakfast.
A poem is the tears that slide
down her cheeks waiting for
the phone to ring (knowing he wouldn’t call)
and the skipped heartbeat every time it did.
A poem is the insincere “I love you”
he whispered as he undressed
her and the intimacy she felt
with each sloppy kiss to her neck.
A poem is his disconnected number
she keeps calling and the two
minutes that feel like eternity as she
waits for pink lines to reveal her future.





















