As a first wife lingers

at the back of a wardrobe, in a man’s
most intimate gesture
you are there
gagging my songs.

I have tried and tried

to scrub you off, but
no matter how hot the water how hard

the bristles

you stayed like a bruise, like a taste
biling up in my mouth.

A knife stuck

in my throat, there,
lurking in the back

of my mind: the inquisitor

in the dark

speaks your voice.

He pounds his fist in my head.

A killer of

unborn thoughts, standing, watching,
mocking my every step, my awkward attempts

to dance.

Your rival feels like
mermaids walking.

I have learned to love that pain.