a warm november

she took the skeletons off the door
removed the bats from the ceiling
and took the rotting pumpkins from the porch
to their graves out back in the woods.
she winced from the dead smell
and nearly threw up when a maggot fell
from the shriveled fruit to the leg of her jeans.

when she walked back into the house
there was just emptiness.
an empty bed in an empty room
in an empty-feeling house.
he had only left a week ago,
and my presence was hardly a consolation.
she looked at me and smiled.
'i've never been this scared,' she said.
'i've never felt this alone.'

it was useless to tell her
i'd always be there for her.
we both knew it was a lie.
we both knew there was nothing i could do.

i could give her money, i could give her support,
but when it came to the things she really needed,
i failed.
he had always been perfect for her like that.
he had always known just what she needed,
and been ready to do anything for her.
but for some reason he still left
at the slight possibility of a baby.

'you know i'll always be here for you.'

'i know,' she said, 'but it's not your problem.
'not your mistake, not your responsibility.'
and she turned to the day-old dishes in the sink,
where macaroni and cheese was turning to concrete.
i could hear sniffles and choked tears
underneath the sound of running water,
and in a whispered sigh, she said,
'thank you though.'

dakota

november 1st, 2000