On our anniversary weekend
you decide to detour
by the house of an ex-fiancée
who determined years ago
that apart was best, an assessment
you dittoed, so the story goes.
Turning south, then west, criss-
crossing again, you pause below
a fortress atop a steep ridge
built for a family of ten, veranda
a bower of some grand ship.
Would you have stayed if she did
I manage to ask, you for whom fidelity
is a custom fit, a coat of fur not shed
no matter the heat.
Rough waters, you admit. Always foam
and brine. Neck craned, foot on brake
but no claim you were not willing
to keep hanging on, shove boulders
from her path with one hand.
Just that her ticket away
was the excuse of another man.
Author of five collections of poetry, Shoshauna Shy’s poems have been published in journals, magazines, anthologies; inside taxis and community cars; as videos, and on the hind quarters of Madison Metro buses. She usually gets ideas for new poems while stuck doing something else.