Your husband has fallen in love.
He says she’s a lot like you. A painter
he met in a bar. They danced all night.
Just like the two of you, at that dive bar
in Santa Fe (when you called at 3am to say
you’d finally met someone).
When he came to visit, your husband
stayed here. His new love lives close by.
He returned from her arms, all sparkly, school-
boy giddy. Not like last year,
when he was walking wounded, watching
his cell-phone video of your forest burial,
over and over (the one I still can’t get
out of my head).
Your husband has fallen in love. But she’s
married and her spouse is abusive, although
he’s ‘never touched her.’ “She’s ready
to leave him,” your husband says.
I tell him about our friend, Lynnie,
whose husband ‘never touched her,’ either,
until she tried to leave and he shot her
twice in the head.
And there’s your voice in my ear, Kate.
Watch out for my husband, you whisper.
He’s always been naive.