I Walk Down A Hall Toward The Building Elevator, The Sound Of My Wife and Children Behind A Door At My Back

If I say my wife leaving was a fall from a height
of little consequence to the body, except my lungs
compressed and faltering in the invisible science
of ending, this would be true. Also,
this would be a lie. My poems leave nothing
to unravel: We are lovers out of love.
No secrets wait in the darkened hallway
of my hardening veins. These bodies have nothing
to spill for you. My wife leaving means each step
becomes simply walking. Every glance
at her face means I’m intruding
on my life. She drags me behind her
like coupled train cars rattling in the cold.

Allison Berry Blevins received her MFA at Queens University of Charlotte and is a Lecturer for the Women’s Studies Program at Pittsburg State University and the Department of English and Philosophy at Missouri Southern State University. Her poetry has appeared in such journals as the minnesota review, Sinister Wisdom, Pilgrimage, and Josephine Quarterly. She lives in Joplin, Missouri, with her wife and two children.

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