After I changed one husband for another,
I changed my shoes.
I changed my earrings.
My dreams changed, too.
I began slamming doors
and shouting—No!
A blue Cadillac crashed
while driving Camino Real.
The only part that stayed
were words
that swam in cool ocean water.
After I changed one husband for another,
I cast a spell in a dream.
I changed my shoes.
I changed my earrings.
I changed the locks,
the bedspread, sheets, and towels.
Sadness and loss
changed to dancing
a cha-cha two step
under a moon and a star.
I began walking
a mountain trail filled
with eucalyptus and blue jays.
After changing one husband for another,
I heard a moon and a star
laugh in a twilight sky.
I changed my shoes.
I changed my earrings.
I changed the locks,
clouds fanned toward mountains,
rain fell onto asphalt,
and leaves stuck wet
like a sentence that has too many
participles and lacks
concrete nouns.
After changing one husband for another
I changed my shoes.
I changed my earrings.
I changed the words.
The weather changed
from autumn to winter
and I learned to rest
my head on a shoulder.
I heard a moon and a star
laugh in a twilight sky.
I cast a spell, so the words
that swam in deep waters
could seep out from wounds
as letters
rising into space.
