Hera

I linger like a foreign lipstick stain on the starched collar

of a businessman’s suit that his wife cannot bleach out –

or a stranger’s perfume, clinging with

rare persistence to your own bedsheets.

They call me Our Lady of Perpetual Inadequacy –

forever the Other Woman.

Your husband brings me home to you, and you taste me

on his lips with every forced goodnight kiss.

I am the wilted flowers in a late birthday bouquet,

and wrinkled notes,

tucked into sock drawers and back pockets.

I am the manicure that never chips.

I am suspicious phone bills and late-night texts,

receipts for things you’ve never seen.

I am the wrong name panted in the dark,

and the curdling nausea of doubt after you fuck.

I am a misplaced wedding ring, dulled by the shame

of out-of-town business meetings conducted

in pay-by-the-hour motels.

I am the curls that never unravel

and I am only lonely

until you are