AFTERMATH

tenderness traps us into believing
love lingers ever after
the crash and burn of adultery


survivors wear wounded hearts
on sleeves recently wrapped
around the perfect stranger


perfecting illusion
entails energy more raw
than every day life demands


woven apologies twist in the hands
of those uncovered


ripples of regret flow upstream
Robin B. Butler

THE COST OF LEAVING

Thinking that leaving would improve my lot
I escaped with a suitcase and a dog.
Having grown accustomed to being alone,
my comings and goings go unnoticed now that
no one waits up for me saying, “Where have you been?
You had me worried sick.”

He said, “A marriage can take only so many sighs.”
Now no one keeps a record of
the number of times I sigh in an evening
or bears witness to my Zen-like concentration
on a bowl of lobster bisque at Iver’s in Seattle.
No one smiles jealously, as I lie on the floor
laughing, all tangled up in my Newfoundland dog
who stands over me trying to put its tongue in my mouth.

Hemmed in with less space to kick around in
I convince myself that I am fine or at least, sufficient.
The living room is too small for a sofa;
I settle on a love seat the cat and I agree to share.
The dog is confined to the kitchen where
she curls into a ball dreaming and licking old wounds.

Downsized, I am as small as a wren.
At breakfast, I gaze out the kitchen window
at rain streaming down grimy window panes.
If there is a Flood I am doomed.
Perched atop a Rose of Sharon tree
a pair of mourning doves counting out life by twos
survey the day.
Mary Ellen Marusa

THE DUST OF BETRAYAL

The dust of betrayal slams upon our shoulders
Stirs up the guilt you dragged home
Smothers us both head to toe
Coats the bruises that never show
Stings any sense I have left over
Erupts, floats and oozes into every corner.

It seems impossible to brush away.
No matter how hard I scrub
I can’t polish us up again.
Robin B. Butler

END OF A MARRIAGE

The marriage of late
Was marked
By perfect silence
Broken only by her heavy sighs.

He couldn’t figure out
Why she never
Seemed to get enough air.
He said,

“A marriage
can only stand so many sighs.”
One day he left
Without saying a word.

She cried for days.
After about a week
She stopped
Leaving the porch light on.
Mary Ellen Marusa

SPOUSAL SUPPORT

Sensibility evades the soldiers of divorce
Every day events evolving into battles
Words honed to split hearts with a single burst
Divide and conquer, mostly conquer,
The rules of engagement obscured by greed
Getting even the only light at the end of tunnels
Winding in and out of responsibilities
Guilt hardening the reflex to simply accept

One marched to overcome a grey life
Another wounded by the flash of change

Bridges between blown apart, forgotten
And no relief troops in sight to recover
The sanity quietly seeping into the tides
Robin B. Butler

GETTING READY TO LEAVE

I keep a knapsack packed in the back of my car
Under camp blankets.
A couple changes of clothing. A toothbrush. My writing.
My hopes. A modicum of courage.
Searching the newspaper for rental properties
I practice leaving.
Making an appointment with a landlord
I look at a seedy little place on Otisco Lake
And another on Skaneateles Lake chilly and dank,
But furnished with maple chairs, a table and a sofa.

Am I ready to abandon the nine room farmhouse?
The thirteen perennial gardens where
I turn up soil with a trowel?
What about the irises, the peonies? The woodland garden
With jack-in-the-pulpits, trilliums, false Solomon’s seal
And violets?
Will I say good-bye to the trail my mate cut
With his Troy Bilt Bush Whacker
Drowning out the world, the birds, and me?
I dig. He cuts. We have gouged and sliced our way
Through thirty-five years of marriage.
There are scars, some old, some scabbed over,
A few still red and raw, festering and oozing.

He is bleeding too.
Mary Ellen Marusa

OUR LAST QUARREL

I waited for word all day
fear tumbling down stairs
spilling guilt, staining the hardwood
splitting open with a howl
that woke the neighbors
I guess they don’t know all our business
after all sharpened tongues belong
tucked away in antique china closets
safe from every day use, not
rattling around an ordinary breakfast nook
spiking another day with regrets too
heavy to pack up and hide in the attic
I never wanted to leave this house
afraid it would implode, pieces of us
littering my drive away
Robin B. Butler