When he told me he didn't love me
(I can't do this, I don't love you) anymore
he asked if I had something more comfortable to wear,
if I could swaddle my heart in worn terrycloth
and feel fine. I couldn't
because my heart was the pricked shards of a wineglass stem
in his palm and because I am polyester hemlines, always
and the creak of satin. I turned
and I tucked my corners and hooked my
eyelets and folded my heels inside. I was
the coin-operated jerk at the end of the parade.
I walked home with
ratchet feet on ratchet legs,
worse than all the mornings after,
in the glare of the day.