A Freeverse Poem

I married four times—

not counting the two men

I lived with like

commercial breaks between divorces.

Am I ashamed?

Well,

it’s not something I’d put on my résumé—

poet, dancer, runaway bride…

but hey,

I survived,

and this last one

is thirty-six years strong.

But when things go crooked,

when the house tilts,

when emotion floods the hallway,

my six-year-old self

packs her bags.

I say the words:

I’m leaving.

I want a divorce.

I’m out of here.

I run away like a child

in a woman’s body

with two hip replacements

and a stenotic spine,

still believing escape

is the only way she knows.

Once I ran so hard

I broke my whole damn foot—

three metatarsals,

clean through.

I crawled up the stairs,

breathing like an orgasm,

except there was no pleasure in it,

and called Hideki—and he rushed home

because that man

loves me,

even when I’m ridiculous.

How could I forget that?

Three months ago

I did it again.

Same story,

new reason—

something about Mary,

jealousy,

an open wound

still afraid of losing

what it loves.

And here I am,

seventy-seven and a half,

thinking:

next time I run away

I’ll be in a wheelchair,

rolling down the driveway,

thinking I’m free.

Why do I do this—

abandon before I’m abandoned?

It’s the math of childhood:

Mom disappears into a hospital at three.

Dad vanishes into a sanitarium at six.

Two years later—

separation, then divorce.

My heart learns subtraction

before it learns love.

Still, in the darkest rooms

there’s a flicker—

old stories rising,

old wounds humming,

a child holding her shoes,

ready to run.My identity

has danced every color:

White, Black, Puerto Rican.

Lovers spun me across continents

without leaving L.A.

One stole everything I owned.

One was a womanizer.

One I put through college.

I drifted between cultures,

thinking maybe somewhere else

I would finally belong.

And now—Hideki.

Sansei, like me.

Eighty-five next month,

his memory slipping.

We fight like teenagers,

love like elders—

slow, stubborn, rooted.

Sometimes I’m cruel.

Sometimes I forget

his stroke carved holes

in the sentences he tries to finish.

Sometimes I take that personally,

as if forgetting a sentence

means forgetting me.

Sometimes I ache

for a sharper mind

instead of the gentle, loyal heart

I already have.

And shame

sits beside me

like a cold cup of tea.

How can I be so cruel?But then—

late afternoon—

the sky turns pink,

then lavender,

then blue disappears,

and I remember:

Love is a practice—

a returning,

a staying.

I want to stay home.

I want to love this man.

I want to stop running from ghosts

that are no longer chasing me.

A new year is coming.

A new dawn.

A new way.

Maybe this time

I’ll keep my suitcase in the closet.

Maybe this time

I’ll let the child in me rest.

Maybe this next time.