What We Tell Ourselves

When my collection was published
an old girlfriend called to ask
why she wasn’t in it. I could have lied,
said one of the love poems
was inspired by her memory,
that I wrote it knowing
she had ruined me for
other women.

Didn’t she recall how
things were at the end,
the heavy wedge of silence
pushing us to separate corners,
broken by howling accusations
and slamming doors?

To voice that thought
I’d have to recognize the
many fights due to me,
too stubborn to admit fault,
too prideful to apologize. Why is it
we remember only what we want—
the orchid days of summer
or wreckage caused only by others?

What I told her was,
“Next time. Maybe next time.”
And here it is, next time,
a poem about her, me, us,
and truth, unvarnished,
unwanted, never to be
requested again.