amaranthine

i knew it was him
before my hand picked up the phone
something in the ring too sentimental
the thanksgiving phone call
undertaken as he stares
at my picture next to his mother’s
on the mantle
both smelling of bourbon
affection and loathing require
equivalent sums of passion
and he hates me
oh god and king henry
how the man hates me
reminding me well and often
with his voice folded within
the what-would-have-been
amaranthine
in the way he can’t help but write angry poems
still hurting from the loss of the baby
and me
with a lump in my throat
not daring to say
i love you