For Marc, Who I Hope Will Not Die

My first ex ordered milk at Loie Fuller’s,
then felt me up on his couch.
He never took me anywhere nice again.

Ex number two spent hours
tutoring me in Japanese horror films
and the hidden meanings
in his own song lyrics.
He never read one of my poems.

Ex three broke parole to hit Vegas
and marry the girl he cheated with.
He used his one phone call to let me know.

Etc.

In the beginning, I supposed
you too would leave—
after I gained ten pounds in grad school,
admitted to seeing The Notebook five times
in the theater,
turned out to be someone
vulnerable, too sensitive, neurotic, someone
with insecurities, someone
you weren’t expecting.

In time I understood you were not
the bad decisions
I made at eighteen, nineteen, and twenty.
After we moved in together
my panic shifted
from you leaving to you dying—

I’ll wake in the night to a ringing phone,
pat the sheets to find you missing
and swallow the slick
slug-like realization before answering.

It was a small sort of progress.