"Letter from an Ex-Boyfriend," by Amy Ellison
In prison, in love with his wife,
in the process of divorce.
The children look too much like her.
She can’t read. (She can’t read this.)
He had never been punctual.
My husband asks if I could write.
I think of one long sentence
spent on him. That night, shouts
from the couple in the apartment
upstairs, seed-husks of insults
spit. And the sobs. I listen
to myself crying overhead.
Improvisation:
My Husband’s Lover
In deep Havana, her lips are their own
rhythm across the karaoke screen.
She dances like Gloria Estefan,
swaying the habanera, jutting pressure
on her hips, the so-called subasta de la cintura.
Bar men and one who couldn’t be married
For more than six-months drool puddles
on their pants. I think, with a move
like the despelote, someone’s husband
will be giving her a good“el perro.”
A week later, with my husband missing
more than supper, an envelope sealed
in swelling scents of mojo, arrives.
Directly addressing a Mrs. Ex-Flanagan.
Inside, a tongue on fire explains
In the full body of a Cuban freshly hand-rolled
in a flavor of cream. My mouth waters
at what my eyes cannot read.
I don’t understand the refrains:
Estoy enamorado de tu Harvey,
Estoy enamorado de tu Harvey
y juntos nos sex, juntos nos sex.
But I am satisfied, smiling,
until I find the English—predictable
as any from the sheets, penned out
sorry you had to find out this way,
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