Moving along.

My ex is engaged.

They've been together since the moment he left me; she was a rebound. He cheated on her several times, with me. Until finally, sadly, I said the magic words: no more.

They've been together all of six months. They've been engaged at least three. And he never told me. I had to find out through other means.

Well, congratulations, my dear. But perhaps you'd better wait for the ink on the divorce papers to dry before watching your new, younger model of me walk down that aisle. And try not to forget about your daughter in all the mess; she still asks about you, you know. She misses her dad.

To the new girl: I'm sorry. He's only going to break your heart, given time. Hopefully it takes you less time to learn this than it did me. Hopefully you have a thick enough skin to withstand the inevitable verbal assaults, because trust me, the honeymoon is going to end sooner than you realize. And I hope you're one hell of a housekeeper.

Paper Chains.

The first snow of the year
& you lying between my breasts
in my husband's house
& the snow gently rising in my throat
like guilt,
& the windows frosted over
as if etched by acid.

You have come from the desert
& have left a little sand
between my legs
where it rubs & rubs
& secretes a milky fluid,
finally a poem
or a pearl.

I am your oyster shell,
your mother of pearl
gleaming like oil on water
for two hours on a snowy day.

"Poets fall in love to write about it!"
I said in my brittle way,
& told you about other loves to tempt you
& heard your siren songs of old affairs.

I fall in love as a kind of research project.
You fall in love as some men go to war.

What tanks!
What bombs!
What storms of index cards!

I am binding up your legs with carbon ribbon.
I tied you to the bed with paper chains.

© Erica Mann Jong