The week he asked for a trial separation

She had not realized
that she had come to relish
the heft of her braid
hanging down her spine
slapping a rhythm on
each cheek of her buttocks
as she jogged the bike route
that met Fairview Lane
How she savoured its swing
this rope between shoulders
needing its weight against
the skin of thin shirts
in the same way cats need
their tails for balance

What will I wear to meet someone I haven't seen in twenty-nine years

I could select the skirt
that flows to the calves, its sway
reminiscent of the dress-ups pulled
from the steamer trunk
that we would don for walking
in the rose garden,
and show how those simple afternoons
were my foundation.
The over-shirt could be velour
intended to welcome your wish
to touch me, cladding the curves
I've managed to maintain
despite years swollen
with children.
Silver on one wrist would indicate
I am not strictly composed
of cheese and prairie gingham,
but have travelled farther
than the borders to which
I remain loyal.
My hair I have tinted
leaving one shard white
which I'll semi-harness
in its tumble down
to illustrate my intrigue
with Franco's Juliet,
the first thing about me
you weren't there
to know.
I stand barefoot upon
savoured memories with fear
that today we will corrupt them,
certain there is a North Shore mirror
where you are standing
too.

After the detective leaves, trick yourself into thinking it's an ordinary day

With thumbnail work in two shakes of Ajax sprinkled
Onto rough side of Scotch-Brite sponge

Using entire forearm, apply circular pressure
To bottom of sink

Twist hot water tap and moisten sponge's surface
Squeeze out excess, continue to scour

Pretend daughter hasn't dissolved in living room corner
Face and hands hidden, hair a tangled thatch

The Imprint

tall, rain-hooded
the lanky figure walks
Draker Hill down
towards Mel and me,
our fluorescent knee socks
in clumps at our ankles,
finger dolls tucked
inside our knit mittens
on this steep shortcut
the last stretch home
Kittens turn sideways
to appear bigger
which is why we speed up
and lean into each other
watching the approach
of his long stride
He scissors between us
and his hand briefly presses
against my red coat

on the V of my thighs

He knows my surprise
will be instantly swallowed
the way snow when it falls
entombs motion in silence,
that this snow will keep piling
on my dinner of chicken,
how it won't melt
beneath the dice of Backgammon
nor will my tongue thaw
as I pull up the blankets
despite the hot bath,
despite floral print flannel,
a silence sealed
by the hunch of his shoulders,
a suede-soft secret
once his, now mine

Shoshauna Shy lives in Madison, Wisconsin and has been writing poetry for three years. Her poems have appeared in over 30 anthologies, e-zines and literary journals which include Midwest Poetry Review, Fresh Ground, The Aurorean: A Poetic Quarterly, Eclectica, Avalon and Whiskey Island. Her first chapbook, titled "Souped-Up on the Must-Drive Syndrome" is forthcoming in Y2K by Pudding House Publications.