I choose to be the lover, not the loved
or am I just nursing bruises from the shove-
and-be-shoved jostle of our daily ties,
the hold and chafe that keep us equalized?

Tomorrow, might I say that I’m the latter?
A good night’s sleep, a kiss, some morning chatter
and my wounded heart will grow warm and full,
love’s tides abate and ease the push and pull?

And when an old friend says, We never fought, 
After her husband’s sudden split, I’m caught
Between shock and sorrow. She never stopped
to shake all the vinegar to the top?

When they made nice, they should have made a fuss.
Sometimes it’s selfishness that’s saving us.

Published in New Croton Review