how to live with a broken heart

1

he found himself in a vietnamese restaurant across from

his lover. on the linoleum table a picked-over fish on a

plate staring at ceiling tiles and the buzzing fan with one

black eye. she twists the bones with a fork, twisting until

the flesh flakes away. “my old boyfriend came over last

night. well. i went to his apartment.” as he chewed stringy

chunks of pineapple, he drilled straight into her eyes.

“and slept together, but it didn’t mean anything.”

2

he rode his bike that summer because when he moved to

be nearer (to her) he sold his car. when he crossed duke ellington

bridge lights glowing dull brown as insects pingponged

moths circled. spiders engineered tricky, sticky, intricate

ladders. he remembered the post said they were installing

nets against the buttresses to keep the humans

from falling (jumping) two hundred and seventy feet to the

serpentine bike path below. he supposed if you wanted

to do it, you could find a sketchy southeast d.c. bridge

and try a fullsprintarmswaving leap. or just aim for beyond

the net. or pretend you just dind’t know. and when the mesh

catches your left shoulder, just wriggle to the edge and

flop over like a clumsy trapeze performer in some bad

comedy. but you’d have a story to tell.

3.

later. in his alone apartment. he thinks about dialing her

and forgiving. and while he debates, he tries a shower to

clean his body and then, when he stays in long enough,

his mind. but not his heart. which is trying to find words.

and while she still might marry him, one day he will be

visiting her, selling telephone systems in a glassy office

behind a vice-president’s sign. and astride her mahogany

desk on grey carpet he will hear her groaning skirt yanked

above her swinging breasts. later she will text him and say

he was only a client. and he will then assume the role of

destroyed painter and never write or date or love

again.

4.

he dreams a bit of 16th street some nights

and the low earthquake moans beneath america’s

johnwaynehollywood horizon

pieced together with shards of superglued mirrors.

and when a 3 a.m. siren bodyslams its way through adams

morgan, he rolls once and clamps a second pillow to his ear.

so he would protect himself from ruin. at least that’s what

he thought then. but what he wouldn’t understand for four decades

is that she would never

choose him.