for she could not share, and I, having spoken
out of turn, and proved myself disgraced, was trumped.
When did a woman pregnant by another’s
husband become the judge of my worthiness,
her black and white thinking peering into the
value of my soul as if it were a door
knob, or deep as a mud puddle? She had great
proximity and skills but could not see her
face in my mistakes as I saw my own in
hers. We might have finished each other’s thoughts.
She wanted you to herself, like a best friend
in middle school, ruled by jealousy and greed
and capable of helping you hang yourself.
In time, love was better felt from separate
spheres, for there was much to disagree on, and
distance proved to make the space between us warm
and more pleasant, surrounding our memories
with a golden light which made them happier
and fonder. Where there’s no remediation,
the one in charge hands you a rope, and all
else takes a step back. I‘ve been forgiven for
as many transgressions as those for which I
have not been pardoned, irritants to my pearls.
Sandra Kolankiewicz writes every morning at 5 a.m.