The Divorce Turns Out Well

Silence six months while I pressed, to be true,
for something other than her truth, which she,
anyway, could not speak to me, thief, in
the house I made, but blurted in shrugs and
chokes and halftones and quavered cussions
but not sobbing, as I'd imagined her,
in the public place she chose.

Trusting my weakness she chose to keep me
quiet. Trusting the superiority
of my weapon she shut me up so she
could speak, choke it out in her hated bland
and artless way, like a CPA, knowing
I and my weapon are dead.  Hoping,
anyway.  Now five years on

My kids come to me and say "Dad, she wont
let me talk."  Each one, all three, carry in
their half-mine mouths the words I gave them.
Their words are mine.  They speak.  They know nothing
less.  They speak one perfect word after
another, on and on, of bright colors,
of full flavors, of their music

Of what they love and hate,
And every word vindicates.