Ben Hyland
Lunch with the Ex
I’d build her a home if
I were a handy man
with a fat credit limit,
two bed, two bath,
Grand Cayman, North Shore,
where we’d work on our tans forever—
string-bikini old folks
dark as the rocks
supporting our shellacked deck.
I’d go fish, if I could fish, and bring her
blue tang, snapper, sergeant major,
kiss her callused feet even though
I hate feet,
gag at the sight,
but if she walked another day with me,
I wouldn’t care. I’d find her—
Sand-blown dress, flowers in her hair—
and run: A child first sees the ocean.
I’d be honest. If she told me
somewhere on Seven Mile Beach
there were a princess-cut
and she’d lick me all over if I found it,
I wouldn’t just comb,
I’d sift every square inch,
swim out for miles and dive, dive, dive,
come up with nothing, gasping, and be so happy.