Husband in Exile by Emily Greene

Returning the letters into their rusty metal house,

I medicated myself with

grapefruit and cucumber—

that perfume you liked so much—

and answered when you called her name.

 

A sickness in my chest

pulled across the laundry line

of torn bar cloths,

sweat-stained plaids,

and Michigan jackets, weary from countless snowfalls.

 

Words of mimicry,

formed in birthday cards

and curated gifts of paintings,

hastily sketched in ballpoint on cocktail napkins—

soaked in a fine fragrance of earth and gin,

crumpled in your jacket pockets.

 

The ever present scent of dying mums,

in shades of lime green and titanium white,

shielded the desperate searching

in your tired, puffy face,

as you presented me

with bouquets of the past.

 

“Do you think she

knows I’m not her?”

I once asked, stroking the charcoal cat in my lap.

 

“Animals remember your scent.

You smell different,”

he had answered.

An aroma of

handmade chocolates,

musty vintage dresses,

and the sweet balm of sadness.

 

“Your Husband in Exile,”

was the signature that

closed the final confession.

I knew then

that I had been there, too,

in your previous life.

But I was Different,

because my name was Molly.