I tried to say
important things
like ‘I love you’
and ‘I’m sorry’
but they came out
wet
crooked
aborted—
and I just let it happen,
let them splatter
like droplets,
like shattered teeth
spat in the sink.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

The mid century outdoor sconce
I helped your wife install last summer
illuminates;
your slightly receding hairline,
5 day old stubble,
sweat stains on a blouse,
the glint of a best friend
charm on my wrist—
your forehead slick with guilt
when my arms, encircling your neck,
remind you
that we never truly cared
about all the lines we’ve crossed.

© Nancy Botta, 2019

She powders the clematis
blooming around her neck,
and dabs at red posies
planted on fat lips,
she paints her skin fresh
like the calla lilies he sent her,
to make up for flower pots
smashed on her doorstep.

© Nancy Botta, 2019