Vacation

The rage and pain take holiday

in Turks and Caicos.

I worship the sun under an umbrella and sunhat,

am tempted to toss my blonde hair seductively,

sleep with the man who looks the least like you,

black hair and brown eyes,

and only for that reason.

I sip one cocktail to pretend it's remotely likely

that I will peel off my swimsuit once in his room

and wonder how long until my nun like existence

starts to slim my sex appeal, sanded down to kindle

by each lie you told.

As he looks me up and down,

I suspect it already has

and feel my arms cross as I walk

back from the poolside bar alone.

I imagine you in the States,

pushing stacks of work papers and our memories

to the side, sense your enjoyment that

you won't see the worry of your

behavior reflected in my eyes again.

That you can buy and bang and be

whomever you want,

indulge in massage parlor peek a boos

and porn and post pubescent

voyeurism or trysts with the working elite.

Even on an island your sickness

swims to find me and I shower it 

away, listening to the Beach Boys

and having the peace of knowing

our son

won't walk in the shadow

of your ghosts.