Jars of homemade jam
with fruit from the garden,
fresh loaves of banana bread
and the perfect walnut topping,
little trinkets and treats,
raptly hanging
on your every flaccid fig,
giggles and cackles mollycoddling
your anemic humor.
“He’s like that sometimes.”
“He’s driven.”
Excuses disguised as grace
for your respectfully disrespectful sabers
when a woman disagrees
or returns to sender
the gift of you.
I know. I did it, too.
Small, silent self betrayals
to stand in your favor
and under your smile
in hopes to catch
a crumb of you.
-Melissa Donley