That open door

I’ve been angry at you,

have not been able to cry it out

for some days

—a baron dam

dug out and

flipped over

but still

not a drip.

You’d implied

you loved me more

than he

but

still

you’d left.

I’ve been angry,

have refused to know

the human in you

—have thought that love is mere feed

for reptilian truths.

But this morning I woke to memories

of when I’d chosen anything else

—anything

from random sex to plane tix—

over love.

Perhaps you’d run

like I had run.

Perhaps the truth was

painfully

human.

Perhaps.

In any case,

any way I can call to mind the humanness,

any way I’m able to cry,

means a way to recall

that anger puts a broken heart to bed

but love

helps it to its feet,

helps it to its pants

and,

though painful it may be,

helps it hobble

to that open door.