She knows it isn’t working out;
his chakras feel too frantic.
And though he’s sworn off meat,
she thinks he sneaks bacon at lunch.
The last guy couldn’t stand incense,
the one before that smoked dope.
She always wonders if single might be better.
But when she starts to sleep alone, she’ll spot
a man choosing apples at the market,
or running on the beach,
and he’ll seem to burn,
almost give off sparks.
For a flash of time,
she’ll see the terror of his birth,
his most embarrassed kiss,
the last time he cried. She can only
approach him then and smile,
ask if he likes Bordeaux.
But now she has to help
her latest lover pack.
She’ll slip in some tea, a strand of hair.
Then she’ll put on sandals
so she can walk and wait
for radiance to pass by.