There are dark breezes from the river, the sky vast and clear.
You press your hands into pockets, your face downturned.
I’m having trouble swallowing, each muscle tight with fear.
Inside, dizzy, I lean on the bar, my elbows sticky with beer
and you don’t carry my glass, striding off to sit down.
I know what you are going to tell me, without hearing it aloud,
your eyes as dark as the night you hit the deer.
My body feels like someone else’s, these alien hands
quiver against my G&T, my ears pound with blood. I hardly
hear you ask if I still want to see the Chekhov, as planned.
Someone laughs, perhaps it was me. Then silence across the yard.
You kiss the top of my head, watch me from the car, and
when you have driven away, I crumble like a house of cards.
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