August 1985. Married.
August 2007. Divorced.
Still using checks with married name and
PO Box (that hid my intentions).
A reminder each time I use one
(crossing out last name, PO Box,
writing in maiden name, my home address),
To note the difference that time makes.
Ten years since the decoupling
Has dulled wrenching tears into
Unwelcome, unfocused remembrances.
I am past dwelling
(is that a reason I shy away from men—
no desire to re-live
when exchanging histories?)
Though cynicism lingers.
Twenty years of marriage:
They can be perplexing to recall—
What tone do I take that
Hurts the least, yet respects
The years together?
Ten years of divorce:
A bridge between then and now—
The pain of living with wanting to forget,
But not wanting.
Disappointment in a cancelled paired-vision.
Regret in decisions and directions taken—or not.
Failure removes the sheen of romance
That had been vibrant.
Sometimes it’s hard to see the pairs, always pairs.
Even if their grass is not green, there is still
Something about those ten twenty thirty years together
That I have lost.