hopping around in the front yard
or on a branch in the backyard, his mistress
close behind; robins, the first birds of spring,
told her it was time to let go,
time to spread her own wings
and begin again.
I was a junior bride's maid once,
standing witness behind my sunburned nose,
riding to the reception in a rented convertible,
watching, when it was all over, her white dress
sway from the ceiling harp in my bedroom,
where she had hung it like a trophy.
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