The Editor’s Ex
Because you’re gone, I take a book to bed:
The Flame of Passion. Scabbard at his thigh,
Sir Maximus distracts the maiden’s eye
from her devotional. “The genre’s dead,”
you’d say when, lured by tales of I-thee-wed,
I’d raid the Romance aisle. I learned to lie
about my day, hoard Harlequins on the sly
while you were off at work, your office spread
with red-inked proofs. But now it makes me yawn
to read beyond the couple’s wedding night.
I close The Flame, not even halfway through.
His sword grows dull while she goes on and on
about how lovers must stay true. I’d write
another ending, if I could, for you.
Caitlin Doyle, "The Editor's Ex." Copyright © 2017 by Caitlin Doyle. Used by permission of the author for PoetryNow, a partnership between the Poetry Foundation and the WFMT Radio Network.
Source:
PoetryNow
(2017)
