We talked divorce all afternoon,
but quietly, without remorse.
I grinned. She smiled, and said, Okay.
We fucked—well, we had intercourse.
I zip her dress. She knots my tie.
We're both prepared for our big lie,
that to our marriage we're enslaved:
Perfect, emotionless. Behaved.
Survivor Poetry Contest
Trigger 25, Poet's Choice (Nonce Form)