I don’t love him anymore, and I don’t know if I ever did.
I mourn the loss of my beauty, all those years wasted
with someone who would rather fondle a wheel of cheese
all types, all textures, out of some misguided sense of sophistication
some notion picked up from watching foreign films
and imported beer commercials.
Men taste like old cheese, smell like old cheese
as if something’s molded in the crevasses of flesh
something aging and curdling in there all on its own.
I lie awake at night, listening to him breathe
wondering if I will be able to tell when he finally dies
by the sudden silence, or by a gradual change
in the odor in the room.
Holly Day has been a writing instructor at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review, and her newest poetry collections are Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body (Anaphora Literary Press), and Book of Beasts (Weasel Press).