If Dickinson had a Husband
       

I give you my poems to mail —
Dear Husband.
Later, you call to say
how sorry you are, throwing
in your briefcase first, leaving
the poems on top of the car
before driving off.

I walk to the kitchen window,
unraveling the phone cord
when I see them in the wind—

winged white sheets,
they sail from the brown envelope,
splitting apart like a milkweed pod—
the seeds flying far, far
over the avenue.

People jog,
push baby carriages,
walk their dogs —
stop and pick them up.
They read sestinas, villanelles, sonnets —
everyone reading my poems.

'Of course,' I say and hang up.

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Copyright © 2021 Paula Goldman All rights reserved
from Late Love
Kelsay Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission