Home by Halves

by Betsy Mars


I smell pancakes and coffee
coming from the kitchen,
but they're not made for me.

In this bifurcated life
we've built over
the past so many years,

marriage now asunder,
we have chalked invisible lines,
divvied the house.

But scents don't obey boundaries,
whether of time or space.
Like alien perfume on collar –
a residual – out of place.

Two living rooms,
splintered memories,
insidious like termites

and holidays,
old expectations chewing
the thin floor between us.


* * * * *

Betsy Mars lives in the southern California suburbs where she practices poetry, photography, and runs Kingly Street Press. Her second release, Floored, features 27 poets from around the world and is available through her, the authors, and also on Amazon. She was a winner in Alexandria Quarterly´s first line poetry contest series in 2020 as well as a finalist in both the Jack Grapes and Poetry Super Highway poetry contests. She is the author of Alinea (Picture Show Press) and co-author of In the Muddle of the Night (Arroyo Seco Press) with Alan Walowitz, out in 2021.