He is God
in blue jeans. His wife,
a saint. She’ll have his children.
They’ll have his eyes, I have this moment
between the jump and the ground.
I know he doesn’t belong to me.
I am the thief, not the victim. My bed
is an empty ring box, an unmade apology.
When he leaves, I will write my vows
in the tangled sheets.
I will not yearn. I will not mourn.
I’ll hate every man with his name.