Summer had been out of character for a while,
strolling in well past sundown, loud-

mouthed & shining rail tequila—spraying me
with her slurred words, her double-fisted palms.

She was the houseguest that wouldn’t leave,
her lingerie strewn about like perfumed love letters,

clumps of blonde hair left in the shower’s drain.
I began to despise her. I saw the way my husband

looked at her, the way the sweat dripped down
his temples, his neck’s canals.

I, too, admit to feeling ignited once or twice.

But this had to end. There was no telling.
Last night the cold came in hard and manhandled

her, shoved her out the door like an abductee.
I’ll admit to smiling at first, to scurrying upstairs

to grab my wooly shawl, thick as rabbit fur.
But the minute my bare feet touched the hardwood,

I grew weak with despair, wished I had been nicer,
drank lemonade with her, spiked it even.