The Wife

by Cynthia Anderson

It’s always the same fight,

and it ends the same way—

I slam the door, jangle my keys,

mumble, No more. I’m done.

I drive fast and far, fly down

bumpy dirt roads, scrape bottom.

Turn off lights and engine,

tell the stars, I’ll never...

I sleep till coyotes howl

then open the door and almost

step on a stinkbug or kangaroo rat.

That’s that. I head back to

my soaps and chores. My kids

don’t show up—why would they?

To watch him on another bender

while I hide in the bedroom?

Ann Landers used to ask, Are you

better off with him, or without him?

I know the answer to that one.

That’s why the next time,

I make sure. I take my pills

with me—all of them. He waits

three days to call the cops, says

She always came home before.

You might think I’m a loser—

but I called his bluff and

made him sweat. So I win.

In my heaven,

there’s no creosote—

only evergreens,

meadows, waterfalls.

I’ll never go home.

* * * * *

Cynthia Anderson lives in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, and she is the author of nine poetry collections. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She co-edited the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows & Ravens. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com