by Kirsten Mayse
Yesterday, I took off my engagement ring
it took a year.
For another I’ll be bandaging Band-Aids
from how it wore into my skin.
Today, I am one week sober
two days without T sleeping beside me
searching for hairs sheets hold knowing
I’ll find less like I know she’s saving me,
but will never love me, like how T joked
about marrying me,
stocking a fridge with orange juice
pantry with white pepper
because T doesn’t cook with salt.
Reminding me of good things
I miss out on, leaving me eyeballing
caloric intake of old tequila bottles,
learning she can’t have kids because
she’d love them too much.
T’s been sober almost two years—
good times are now Christmas nights,
NA Coronas, sketchy litter packed
gas stations buying lottery tickets
scratching with someone’s old dime
promising we wouldn’t cross casino bridges.
Now she calls me Key and I’m frightened
by how much I may need her,
the domesticated cat roaming
apartment 213, reflecting stoic noise off bare walls
even that cannot sound the same for us both,
but T makes me pickles in used
salsa jars, at night between pages
that’s all that matters
until she leaves me with emptied jars,
unfinished books and Band-Aid debris
to confess to someone new
the story with their lip
between my teeth
never saying a word about her not loving me enough
as I hold her pickles in my stomach
and pin our lottery tickets to the fridge.
About the Author:
Kirsten Mayse is a Memphis-born poet now living on the Oregon Coast. A graduate of the University of Memphis, her work explores the long arcs of healing—moving through addiction, grief, and old traumas by listening closely to stillness, sound, and the subtle exchanges between inner and outer worlds. Her poems have appeared in The Journal, Red Cedar Review, and Wingless Dreamer, with new work forthcoming in ANGLES.