Virginia LeBaron
Love Poem to My Ex-Husband
It was impossible not to eavesdrop
in that intimate Georgetown bistro
quiet and dark as a wren’s nest, tucked in right behind
a polished couple, middle-aged
in low-backed, wooden chairs.
Are you finished? the waiter asks the woman
who then asks her husband:
I don’t know, am I?
and laughs.
We lean in, foreheads touching, whisper what kind of woman
must ask her husband if she is done
with her chocolate torte?
We tap the tines of our forks, the tops of our thighs
skim the edge of the tablecloth. Aren’t we lucky
to have figured out our lives so completely.
When they leave we see
that she cannot. A thin, white cane
taps by, sweeping the future
like a metronome, her husband’s
hand on the small of her back.
Silent, we fold
our napkins neatly into squares,
then squares again. We stuff them
into our mouths, deep, until the fibers dissolve,
the red wine stains fade. Pull the tablecloth
from the table, glasses crashing, tear it into pieces
and we eat that too. Jam it into our throats, a tamponade,
a dam, a corking of our breath
that stops on all the things
we thought to know.​​​​​​​​
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​Virginia LeBaron is a nurse and a poet. She has published one chapbook (Cardinal Marks, Finishing Line Press, 2021) and her writing has been supported by a residency with the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and through the Lighthouse Poetry Collective. She is an Associate Professor of Nursing at the University of Virginia and lives with her family in Charlottesville, Virginia. www.virginialebaron.com