One Sip Milky, One Sip Sweet
Rosalie Morales Kearns
Once a year his ex-wives
gather for coffee
at the all-night diner on Crescent Road.
They grumble about the ceiling lights,
buzzing fluorescents.
The glare, they say. So harsh
on our laugh lines.
The ex-wives drink from each other’s cups,
one sip milky, one sip sweet, one sip acrid and hot
like the taste of betrayal
or was it restlessness?
Who divorced whom?
They hardly remember.
The ex-wives watch the clock.
They have others waiting at home for them now,
lovers and children and pets
but no husband, no.
One was enough.
At midnight they burst through the door,
metal-and-glass
boundary between night
and buzzing fluorescents,
sneak into Pine Hill Cemetery,
look at his grave, leave
flowers.
Once a year his ex-wives
gather for coffee
at the all-night diner on Crescent Road.
They grumble about the ceiling lights,
buzzing fluorescents.
The glare, they say. So harsh
on our laugh lines.
The ex-wives drink from each other’s cups,
one sip milky, one sip sweet, one sip acrid and hot
like the taste of betrayal
or was it restlessness?
Who divorced whom?
They hardly remember.
The ex-wives watch the clock.
They have others waiting at home for them now,
lovers and children and pets
but no husband, no.
One was enough.
At midnight they burst through the door,
metal-and-glass
boundary between night
and buzzing fluorescents,
sneak into Pine Hill Cemetery,
look at his grave, leave
flowers.