I find your other wife’s earrings in the pocket of my coat: large, gold.
When I leave, she comes. When she leaves, I come.
Last week she organized my lipstick shades from pink to red–– a kissing rainbow.
I find her shampoo in the shower only you use.
She makes enchiladas and leaves one in the fridge for you. Or maybe for me.
I ask to know who she is, but you say, That’s not the arrangement.
Your other wife must wear your shirts to bed. I watch you from the doorway, unrolling the cuffs.
She’s leaving clues for me: a pile of mango pits on a towel in the garage, a tuft of brown hair in my underwear drawer, the word “almost” underlined over and over again in the newspaper. Almost. Almost. Almost.
I put her earrings on: heavy, like a human heart.
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This micro was a finalist in the 2021 SmokeLong Grand Micro Contest.
