By now you might be tired of changing
your name. You erase the past, systematically
kill the pets, sell the heirlooms. I was always
quiet in your presence; a shade
dumb, you thought; nevertheless, salable
goods for the amateur pimp: a retirement
plan in the flesh. Dutifully I fell in love
with a man more Victorian
than you. It was foolish to leave us
to our own devices, every cult leader
could tell you that; but you were more
a despot of whimsy than will. This latest
might be your last catch. Husband Number
Three said your eyes looked like piss holes
in the snow when you wore white face paint
to play Marie Antoinette. How many hours
did you spend sewing that gold gown?
It’s tougher for the merry widow to ensnare
than the maiden. With your children divided
evenly between the faithful and reformed
you might be more careful this time
or end up lurking in casinos like Becky
Sharp, face chalked, hiding behind your fan
when old acquaintances happen by.