Hymn to All Those Breakups
by Shuly Xóchitl Cawood
after Joan Kwon Glass
Everyone sings about beginnings, when love is plump
on the vine, everything juicy and sweet. No one talks
about the dried-up, the shrunken, the shriveled. I can list
off the places where someone broke my heart—
on top of that steep hill on that metal bench, in his car
with the engine huffing just outside my door, in my office
with its slanted walls and small storage closet, so many ways to keep
something hidden away. No one sings about the Kleenex boxes, the hard
sprints down neighborhood lanes, the screaming that rose but never
came. I have never written a poem about the walls I painted salmon
pink in anger and relief, or about the time I shook a black dress
off its hanger and grabbed keys and drove to the first dance
that night, even if it meant arriving and leaving alone. Alone
was the coffee shop table where I found my peace in decaf.
Alone was the kale salad I prepped for two but ate solo. Alone
was the hike in Glen Helen or Duke Forest or going anywhere the woods
offered shadow and darkness and made them into beauty.
No one sings about the pleas for forgiveness, the ransom
I paid to change for the better, the long drive home
on the highway, after all that rain.
Everyone sings about beginnings, when love is plump
on the vine, everything juicy and sweet. No one talks
about the dried-up, the shrunken, the shriveled. I can list
off the places where someone broke my heart—
on top of that steep hill on that metal bench, in his car
with the engine huffing just outside my door, in my office
with its slanted walls and small storage closet, so many ways to keep
something hidden away. No one sings about the Kleenex boxes, the hard
sprints down neighborhood lanes, the screaming that rose but never
came. I have never written a poem about the walls I painted salmon
pink in anger and relief, or about the time I shook a black dress
off its hanger and grabbed keys and drove to the first dance
that night, even if it meant arriving and leaving alone. Alone
was the coffee shop table where I found my peace in decaf.
Alone was the kale salad I prepped for two but ate solo. Alone
was the hike in Glen Helen or Duke Forest or going anywhere the woods
offered shadow and darkness and made them into beauty.
No one sings about the pleas for forgiveness, the ransom
I paid to change for the better, the long drive home
on the highway, after all that rain.
Shuly Xóchitl Cawood teaches writing workshops, doodles with markers and metallic paint, and is raising two poodles and five orchids. She is the author of six books, including Something So Good It Can Never Be Enough (Press 53, 2023) and Trouble Can Be So Beautiful at the Beginning (Mercer University Press, 2021), winner of the Adrienne Bond Award for Poetry. She has an MFA from Queens University, and her work has been published in The New York Times, The Sun, and Brevity. Learn more at shulycawood.com.