Seven months is long enough

Seven months is long enough

for the grass to grow and the dirt to pack.

I don’t check the screen for your name

when the phone rings anymore.

But then the pickle jar hits the floor.

The glass doesn't just break; it sprays.

Green juice and seeds across the linoleum,

and the smell of vinegar fills the lungs

until I’m coughing.

I opened my mouth to call for you,

to tell you to watch your step,

but the house is just a box of quiet

and my socks are getting wet.