Betrayals
by Renee Emerson
1.
You carried bitterness
in your pocket like the elderly carry
peppermints and caramels (you never
would hand them out).
It left no bulges, creases, laid a little flatter
than hatred, a little
smoother than love, but it weighed,
pulled and weighed, like a child
that isn’t yours but grabs
your hand in the supermarket
thinking you’re his mother.
You aren’t his mother, and his hand
is grimy with nervous
sweat and chocolate.
You did this, you tell me,
as that one pocket
causes you to list
and drag to its side.
This is the homeowner who sees
the crack in the foundation,
smells the first
dank wafts of mold
in the drywall, then the cellophane
flutter of termite
wings, and their chewing and chewing.
The hint of damage we can’t afford
to repair.
2.
The sunflower
planted in a row of daisies. Our roots
intertwined, embraced, all took
water from the same soil.
You shaded, grew
tall and diseased.
They cut you out
from the ground, roots
and what soil you could
hold, and what roots we had
twisted with yours
were cut and taken
away.
There was nothing
to hide us from the sun, but we grew
to cover the bare
ground
where you used to be.
3.
You have given me a lie with truth
written across its face. Yes,
I took it, I only read
the labels. But like an arcade
token in a snack machine,
it is no use
to me. It’s best to let it drop
on the sidewalk for someone else
to pocket. (It does shine
and lure in the sunlight). Or
to let it rust in a drawer
with all the others.
4.
White sheets over the furniture--
the armoire that belonged
to your great aunt,
the unwound clock, the sofa
we were not allowed
to sit on.
They stand like austere
trick-or-treaters, all the same
costume—no bag for candy, no holes
for the eyes and mouth, simply
ghosting.
This is what we have done with our past—
we covered it all with the purest
whitest sheets.
