A rock—
any shape, any size.
Kick it a little
every day.
It may take many days,
but eventually
it becomes a sphere:
smooth, round,
ground into a pleasing
hand-feel.
I want to be like that.
The Internet will say,
no matter the problem,
that you are the problem—
or your spouse is—
depending on how you skewed
the story—
and the only solution
is to leave.
But maybe we’re just bumpy.
Lumpy. Misshapen.
Maybe conflict is what wears down
the sharp edges.
Is leaving, then,
and moving on to the next guy
really the only option?
Someone commented:
“Why ex-husband-shaped
if not ex-husband?”
What shape is the next guy, ma’am?
Perfect and polished—
a cushion-cut diamond,
a god among men,
Jesus in Carhartts,
Buddha with an ironic
hipster moustache?
No.
Probably some broken boy
wanting love.
Because if he didn’t,
he wouldn’t be on the apps.
Just like she’s a broken girl
wanting love.
Because if she didn’t,
she wouldn’t be on the apps.
We are all broken people.
Mere mortals.
And I was naïve
to believe a woman
was different by default.
My friend keeps saying,
“I wish I was a lesbian,”
after each new man.
I laugh.
“I hear you.”
Because I don’t really know
what the fuck I am—
or what I want to be.
Strangely, it might be this:
my life as it is.
Is this contentment?
A perfectly balanced,
nourishing meal
with not a dab of spice.
I shall live long
and be strong.
Is that not enough?
My ancestors were wise
not to want more:
food,
a roof,
and God.
Praise be—
Lord up in heaven—
we wake another day
to toil,
eat,
sleep,
and wake another day.
Now Hinge is advertising
double-date options.
How many minutes
until that feature
was used for orgies?
Five, I’m guessing.
The news keeps claiming
AI will kill humanity,
comparing it to the Terminator.
I joke with my husband:
“AI should shut up
and nut up.”
We agree:
less talk,
more action.
If you’re going to kill us,
do it soon.
Swift—
Taylor Swift—
Swift.
Kick the rock down the road
and let the rough edges smooth.
Sandpaper:
rough against rough
makes smooth.
Make me smooth enough
to grace a lover’s cheek.
Let us roll down hills,
get stuck in ditches,
rest for a minute—
not wanting a fucking thing
for five minutes.
Not a man.
Not a like.
Not a comment.
Not advice.
Not another kick.
Not a Hinge orgy.
Not even a dash of Mrs. Dash.
Just rest.
