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I knew you weren’t a family
man—domestic—all mine—here

we have no secrets—
I knew the way you made love
to her—I picture

a common house mosquito
all summer in the corner

of our home—with stealth
waiting by the door to come
inside—then gentle

the way she so lightly lands
caresses capillary

with fascination
I watch her against the wall
tumbling—using

the long legs of a dancer—
and you’re near invisible

coming home after
midnight—busy in the dark
then lying quiet

I wonder where you have been—
who’s door—you beg like a stray

the way you whisper
then bite my ear to make sure
I pay attention

the way you are hot and cold—
leaving—for the whole winter

before returning
always returning to me—
to this—well lit place

 


Jennifer Met lives with her husband and children in North Idaho. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in  Zone 3, Moon City Review, Gulf Stream, Sleet Magazine, Apeiron Review, Weirderary, Kestrel, Juked, Barely South Review, and elsewhere. She currently serves as assistant poetry editor for the Indianola Review and is addicted to tomatoes.

© 2016, Jennifer Met

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