Last night I dreamt your ex-wife
       

lived in our house. Mornings she ground
almonds with the mortar and pestle
my parents gave as a wedding gift. We tended
to her, our guest. You drove her
to the co-op for nettle and colloidal silver. I folded
her laundry, chemises in delicate squares.
She rearranged our living room, had you wrap
our microwave in foil and put it out
for trash pickup.

Before I met her, I dreamt she'd find me
in her house, sitting across the table you two shared. She
was always barefoot, hair loose, skirt
flowing, firm in showing me the door. I wanted
to know her without her knowing, see
who you were through your first love, the mother
of your children, the one who spoke
your heart into being, turned you to dust, then
spit and reshaped you again
and again until you tired of the sweeping.

Now her hair clogged the children's
bathroom sink. Afternoons
she rested on our bed, her mother visiting,
their heads touching. They shared
a cigarette and talked of the children, how tall
the boy, how beautiful the girl. Our
cat preened between them.

I took to wearing
la mano poderosa to keep
her from knowing
my thoughts. Days turned
to weeks, months.
We fell into a routine, you
cooking, me cleaning,
your ex-wife clearing our negative
entities at no charge.

One morning she packed her things in a banker's box, with a note
a man would come by to retrieve it. She
didn't know when. I drove her to the river. She handed
me her wedding band. She walked across
a sandbar. A raft of wood ducks scattered
in her wake.

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Copyright © 2022 Michelle Otero All rights reserved
from Bosque
The University of New Mexico Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission