He showed up on my doorstep
with that smile, sunflowers,
a bag of Swedish Fish, like
it was just another night. That’s
no way to end a relationship.  Earlier,
he stopped by with pockets filled
with river stones worn smooth—
I worried that the seams would tear,
feared he might go for a swim
(he adored Virginia Woolf). Once,
he turned up with another girl,
a co-worker who just needed a place
to crash. She looked frail, was fresh
out of The Joint, so he left me
with her—for two days! She wanted
to sweep the floor, got upset because
I didn’t swear. I told her to get out
of my fucking house. On one occasion,
he arrived with a knife, with condoms,
booze, a mermaid tattoo and a sob story
about a runaway train. I sent him
packing. He came back with a bouquet
of collapsed blossoms: wilted trumpets,
pink, deflated, tasting of the sea.