Martha Webster
It could happen
anyplace. In a deli
aisle a plush theater: that woman
Shalimarred on his arm.
Maybe his polished shoes
will shuffle backwards.
Maybe I’ll allow myself
to think I’ve known
his heart these eighteen
years. But remembering
he never stomached
knowing mine,
I press my ear
to the clicking
tumblers
of the overdose safe,
mechanism
fast unlocking.