The feeling that the doors will soon slam closed,
hot lights flash on. I’ll be the fool, exposed.
My ex-wives watch behind a two-way mirror
smiling at rabbit eyes, trembling hands. This terror

tosses me beneath damp sheets, a rag
spinning in a dryer, or a bug
the exes try to stomp on one by one,
shrieking their disgust as I outrun

them once again. How long can I defy
this trinity that haunts me for the lies
I told each one of them? Abashed, I see
the need-for-anyone dressed up as me

pledging the vows: to have, to hold, to cherish
until one of a sacred pair should perish.
I wasn’t there. I let a ghost stand in
for me, recite the words, and flash a grin

at nearly the right time. Three times, this trick.
Three brides deceived so I would not feel sick
with the anxiety of nights alone.
I ran through lives so that I’d hear the phone

and women’s chatter rather than silence.
I’ve suffered and inflicted violence
played down because emotional, then stuffed.
Each divorce burned like a sudden frost,

left me bereft. But here, I pay in fear.
In this stark room, my wives drink my despair.
I’m naked, bald, and sticky with my sweat,
a trapped embodiment of my regret,

and I can hear them giggle, then a hiss.
This room is my confessor, my abyss.
I meant no harm. And yet, each time I chose
my loves, I heard, dimly, a jail door close.

Original appearance in Angle: Journal of Poetry in English