NO SOUP FOR HIM

When I reach

for him

he isn’t there—

just an indent

in his pillow.

My Napoleon

scimitar

hides under

mine.

Rage stops me

from breathing

every time

he disappears—

all that’s left

of me

is a self-hating

sous-chef

watching tears

add extra salt

to my

ratatouille.

Now if he

comes home,

he can chew

on a bone

like a mangy

junkyard dog.

He can subtract

his selfish

footprints

from my life.

He will never taste

my bouillabaisse

again!