The Morning After I Cheat

Grief makes even my husband bearable;
washes the spaces between his fingers,
gives his anger a new name.
He is shiny in it; mourns my love
the way I mourn innocence;
with bloodshot eyes and black coffee.

Every Thursday night my limbs are lost
in a California king in a town two miles away
and he, anchored to 1967 summer of love,
leaves dinner in the microwave;
spaghetti Bolognese, cream soda in the fridge.

In the peach pink morning, I slip him on
like a virtual reality headset and amble
through the kitchen, I scrub the dishes
with softer hands, remembering
the summer we bought them:
sunstroked and lemon'd

I scrape the back of the freezer and the frost
off my chest. I clench the bomb in my belly
quiet. There is something there;
cigarette filter eyes still flickering. He says,

even Daisy Buchanan has her fans. I say,
I can drive you to work this morning, honey.

Zoe Antoine-Paul is originally from the island of Saint Lucia, but calls Brooklyn home. Her poems have appeared in F(r)iction and Poets Collective. When she’s not writing, Zoe can be found crunching numbers in Midtown.