The Rehearsal

His voice, a sudden bridge

to her name,

and then the familiar weight,

a stone in my gut.

The argument, polished,

ready to deploy.

Each phrase, a small, sharp tooth.

"You never cared enough,"

I’d tell her, if she’d answer.

"You always took the easy road."

I’d pace the kitchen,

the words a bitter taste,

a dry, papery film

on my tongue,

ready to peel back layers

I knew she wore.

He hung up.

The air still,

the phone warm in my hand.

And the words,

still gathered,

dense, unspent,

a small, unexploded ordnance.