Someone
by Keven Bellows

After every love affair
someone must suffer
long days, longer nights,
the mind racing, rehearsing
mistakes, miscues.

Someone has to remember
the last days, scavenging in the wreck
of security, searching for missed clues
of the impending disaster.

(If only I’d been more affectionate
 less needy, thinner, trusted more.)

Someone has to return/reclaim
the clothing, CDs, books,
time the visit
when the lover is out.

Someone has to burn the letters,
throw out the gifts, endure
the shrieking silence of the telephone,
the smoothness of the other pillow.

Someone has to examine, interrogate,
pick the bones of the last conversation clean
again, and again, feel stupid
duped, dumped, devastated.

Someone has to be smothered
in blame, self-loathing,
shame, sadness, turn inward
away from hope.