Shelf Life

Nice dress, he breathed, a little too humid

         for first words to a stranger, a little too close

                  for his scent to not breech her lungs.

Without moving, her eyes scanned for exits

         from the car park, silent in its underground hold

                  on her neck.

Something happens when tomorrow rips

         to its last few threads.

                  Her back arched, pushing out her chest,

         her right hand rose to her hip. Leading with her chin,

Do you think blue suits me? in her best bar lilt.

         He looked through blue      to her skin,

                  to the silver lines on her curves, to the way

         her thighs were tensed. He must have seen

the quiver of the down on her arms.

But there is no man.

No car park.

         She’s wearing jeans and a brown t-shirt,

                  the child-seat digging into her hip as she straps in

         her two-year-old daughter (howling)

in her mother’s driveway, after orange almond cake,

         and aloe for the heat rash, and advice

                  on how to stay with her husband.

         Everything will be ok, honey.

         Hope she sleeps tonight.

But her daughter doesn’t sleep that night.

Because she doesn’t have a daughter.

         She never wanted children.

                  And she never believed he could leave her

         and their unblemished, languid life

of reading together in the evenings

         (memoir for her, war history for him)

                  and walking their pug on the beach in the mornings

         and trying new recipes to jazz on Sundays.

Yet, here she is looking at the empty shelves

         on his side of the wardrobe.

But there is no wardrobe.

No husband.

No recipes.

Just a woman, staring at the pantry,

wondering what to make today

from these empty shelves.