What I Miss Is Fiction
I do not miss her.
I miss the certainty that she was good.
The mirror I polished every time she smiled.
The softness I swaddled with her silence.
She never said the cruel things.
She let them bloom in the aftermath.
The truth came with teeth——
blades tucked inside lullabies,
inferno dressed as candlelight.
Not every ghost deserves an altar.
I don’t grieve her——
only the lie I kept warm.
Comparative Physiology
I craved that flicker, cruel glimmer,
a spark. I grieved a faded family,
but you——
you released a tool, a fine weapon,
something to tether him close.
You mourned that all-American
illusion, a white picket fence,
a hand to hold you still,
a boot to keep you down,
while I clutched real things:
tiny socks, dreams that never breathed,
the way love turns solid, then dust.
And you——
you dared to ask if losing my baby
was just like taking your pill.
As you said, we don’t talk anymore,
so let’s get this straight: No.
This isn’t a contest of wounds,
or a count of red stains.
I could wield the scalpel,
push in, pull out your lies,
exposing broken bones of trust,
but that man who only ever took you in parts——
a body, a bed——he’d have left you all the same,
even with a child in your arms.
And you regret it now,
maybe,
your fantasy of love,
maybe,
the life you never held,
that sharp
ache, always in your chest,
always
cutting
deeper.
Maudie Bryant is a poet and multidisciplinary artist whose work explores the complexities of memory and identity. A graduate of the University of Louisiana Monroe (M.A. in English), she creates to peer beneath the surface of human experience. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Progenitor, Welter, and 3Elements Review. She lives in Shreveport, Louisiana, with her husband and two sons, balancing a full-time career with the creative practice of motherhood and art. She draws inspiration from myth and history, and counts Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes among her favorite examples of revenge in art.
