It says so on Google. I type in Heather wants
and it tells me this is it. It must be the reason my dreams always end
with his funeral (the one I didn’t attend) and why I pull the covers
over my ears so I can’t hear the memory of him saying, “If I were her,
I’d be just like her,” as he tosses a pillow past me to his office couch.
As he steals the air from his office fan for his own beard. As he jokes
about Britney Spears and modesty, as he throws around
the rubber chicken. As he says he is “the midwife to my ideas,
but [I] have to get [myself] pregnant.”
Heather wants a great orgasm story – or any great
story, Heather wants to grab his booty!, Heather
wants to solve poverty through better design, Heather wants
a fairy tale ending. This is why I can’t read
that email with the final poem he wrote before he died.
This is why the poem is stiff in my Inbox like the carcass of a crow.
It’s called “Open Heart,” written just before his closed.
I can’t read it until I am done with my PhD. Maybe until I have tenure.
I can’t read it because it probably doesn’t remember me.
Heather wants your man. Heather wants cake.
Heather wants you to succeed and she wants to help!
Heather lies in bed and reads crumpled papers
filled with old poems, each signed to her with a note. She traces
the words with wide eyes, seeing symbols in the torn corners
and smudged ink. There are clues in the way an “L” is shaped.
When Heather closes the bathroom mirror, she expects him to pop up
behind her and yell, “Funny joke, huh?!” Heather wants answers
about almond butter.