I remember the day you moved out,
how your women’s circle came
to provide support and strong arms,
how they cornered me in the kitchen,
isolated, contained, as if I was virus,
contagion. 

One by one the women
carried boxes out into the light,
until just you at last, a mumbled That’s that. 
I offered all I had left, shower curtain rings,
believing my charity might win
you back.

The six of you gathered
in the driveway for a group hug
and a prayer to the goddess of the rock,
while I stood on the front porch,
useless, past-tense, a man 
and his damnable cock.