Ménage à Trois

A fall tree

half-bare and trembling

I wait

hoping it will settle

like the weight of wood

on water.

 

You followed me

snaking corners

into the pastry shop

on Amsterdam Avenue

where I would go to write. 

The door jingled to a close against 

the leather whip of cold.

You sat beside me

collar straight

prose muscular.

I wanted what you had

but not you.

Not yet.

 

I smelled you everywhere for years,

down black-and-white tiled hallways

stale with city piss,

between damp sheets 

musky with the substitute

scents of other men.

I gave birth.

I wrote a book.

 

When I called at last a woman answered,

her voice a sharp crush of autumn leaves

beneath the sole of my boot.