She sees the stair every night
walking up to bed,
the blue stair
out of place from the rest.
The one her husband carried her up on their wedding day,
the stair she once kicked in anger
bruising her toes.

When they first bought the home,
a big bungalow in the 'burbs,
the stair was covered in carpet,
peachy shag,
they tore it up together,
revealing fresh oak beneath,
wood waiting to breathe.

She remembers tripping on the stair,
drunk with love and laughter,
her ring lighting the way.

Possibility was made here,
rough and splintered,
full of passion.
"No woman, No cry" on the stereo.
Marley could always set the mood.

They would pretend they were in Jamaica,
red rum drinks in their hands,
moving in time on the beach, the sand sifting
between their toes

Now they find themselves in a
pale green office,
talking to a stern-faced stranger.

Now she sits on the stair,
air ripe with words unspoken,
bubbles above the Sunday comics,
ready to burst.
He walks away with a fat suitcase,
not looking back.

Now the stair is dull with neglect,
dust bunnies congregate in the corners.
Unborn children remain in her head.

Now she will be single again,
drink martinis stiff with gin.
Her throat will dry up as she smiles,
trying to attract bees to her hive.
A member of the Divorce club

Drunk, she crawls
up the stairs.
Thick again with dreadful carpet,
just installed yesterday.

This poem originally appeared in Depaul's Prelude press - first edition.