Common Law Divorce

For years I slept with a levee of stones
and the wind turned in my fingers,
knee cracks, the sinking springs
nothing so automated as love.

each time a fresh blade found
itself pressed to my throat
a low hum. No one blamed
the blood or white taffeta.

Wolves indulge in expensive cologne
too, you know. The wooly allure
of being desired, a young divorcee
in a snow bank, snagged.

One bag of letters soaked to pulp,
the books: evidence of your mouth
went to flame. This is a cunt hex:

may she would be reborn
as moss on your headstone,
and may you find a slow collision
or tumor to die inside
soon.