This is the poem where she stays.
This is the poem where her hand grazes
the doorknob, turns 45 degrees
then stops.
She stands still staring at a spot
just above the doorframe.
(What is that—a water stain?)
She bites her lip and waits;
listens
to your apologies stuck
like a lump in your throat.
And you watch her hand twitch
and you pray
that she doesn’t turn the doorknob
any further.

This is the poem where she turns around.
This is the poem where she gives
you an icy stare
but she stays; sits
in her favorite chair.
She crosses her legs and she waits;
listens
to your frantic explanations
about why you did what you did and
how you’ll never do it again.
And she wonders
if you really mean it.

This is the poem where you kiss her.
This is the poem where she doesn’t resist,
but doesn’t quite reciprocate.
She takes her bag back
to the bedroom to unpack
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if she starts putting her stuff away
where it belongs, or if instead
she puts the packed bag by the bed
incase she changes her mind.

This is the poem where you come home late
from work the next day.
This is the poem where she pushes you away.
She screams and makes threats
about the bag by the bed.
She’ll leave you—she swears it.
Just give her a reason.
You calm her down with words
like “I love you,” and “Trust me.”
****** forth your phone
“Call the office, if you must, babe.”
She walks towards the bedroom
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if you can hear the exact moment
when she stops loving you.

This is the poem where she leaves, anyway.
This is the poem where she doesn’t look back
as you beg and you plead
and grovel on your knees.
You paint a picture with your words
of your life before this.
How you wish it never happened!
“What if it never happened?”
She stops and she drops
her bag on the floor
She turns and she stares
at you in the door.
“You can’t change the past.
You can’t wish it away.
It’s just not that kind of poem, babe.
This is not the poem where I stay.”