In 2 minutes he will unlock the front door
and walk 28 steps to the bedroom. 12 minutes ago
I ask him to come home. I twist my ring
a half-turn around my finger. 4 years ago
I am 25 years old, it’s August and we’re playing poker.
There is a ring in the center of the table and I am dealt
a queen of spades and a queen of hearts.
In 2 minutes I will hear his key turn inside the lock.
4 years ago I win the hand. 2 minutes from now
he’ll walk 28 steps to the bedroom.
I twist my ring a quarter-turn around my knuckle.
10 minutes from now the words will exit my mouth.
Words that execute my old self. In 68 days
I’m standing on a frozen lake. It is my 30th birthday.
10 minutes from now I will tell my husband.
It will feel like a spell being lifted.
I try to see through the ice, the lake moans
and birds scatter like buckshot. 1 month from now
he thinks he hears me getting out of bed,
the possibility exists that we are still together.
10 minutes from now his wife will exist, yet not exist.
I will not know if I am inside or outside my body.
8 months from now he’ll hike 800 miles.
18 months from now I’ll be living with my wife.
In 2 minutes he’ll walk 28 steps to the bedroom.
4 years ago I shuffled a deck of cards.