I Heard a Woman Say, “I’d Rather He’d Died than Left Me”

I’d rather pretend you left me,
that we parted on purpose,
and let anger keep me alive
instead of just my nose above ground.
 
There would not be much left unsaid
because I could still say it
over the phone, in passing,
across the aisle of the grocery
we’d still meet at
on the same day, same time—
 
you grabbing whole milk,
me, 2%—and I could ask
how you’re getting along
and if you ever learned
how to flip an omelet
or read the label before
washing your clothes
or if the endings ever changed
on the reruns you watch
and if you remember to take out
the dog and the trash and if you
flush . . .
 
or if you enjoy the bedroom
dark now that I no longer read
beside you for two hours each night
and if the bed is cool like you want it,
like your side
when I creep over and dry my hot cheeks
on your cold pillow.
 
And not have to love anymore
because hate doesn’t hurt
like this; it doesn’t go away
and never come back
 
like this.