By Melissa Strilecki

Once, I wrote a single poem 
to expunge a relationship—it ranged and roved.  
Five poems in with you and there is always  
one last thing to say. I met your brothers  
and their wives, and I hear you all had a laugh. 
You’ve always liked brunettes in tennis shoes, 
and I, vaguely blonde, wore a dress.  
I catalog every slice that breaks  
the skin—see all the places you got in? 
Every link, every image I send anyone, 
my phone still thinks I want to tell you.  
There should be a way to measure  
the weight on my breastbone. Once, loving you  
was a privilege. Your card arrived—cold  
and polite. Beside the mailbox, 
I licked the envelope. I can’t tell you,  
so I tell everyone else. When you called me  
to say, “My dad wants you at the party,”  
I tried on everything I own. 

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Melissa Strilecki’s work can be found in ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry, The Shore Poetry, Sugar House Review, and others. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Seattle with her two children.