I.
They followed through with it,
a number taken a time ago at the butcher's counter
that's called after my foot's already tired of tapping.

Get on with it. Allyship—too good to be true.
We waited together for the verdict, staring at our feet,
holding our own hands in public, but not the other's.
No, no longer. Never.

We looked every way crossing the street when we went home
after dark, some time granted, afterwards disappointed,
the next move decided, worried our ending could be more
abrupt, scared to walk alone, to look behind us.

As if everyone was suddenly against us.
As if they always were.

Tomorrow, my stuff goes to the curb
and I must grab a car before it passes.

Forcibly separated, evicted by the government,
I will tell my wife goodbye and move
into my state-sanctioned studio apartment.

To fight will result in certain death,
social or otherwise.

We thought this was speculative,
that it wouldn't happen in our lifetime.

It's the near-future. Needless to say, they let us down,
a past decade revived and tradition monumentalized.

We are re-entering an age gone by,
new foundations overturned for the former.
You said it's like living in another country.

Where?, a word that designates time.
Where we shared hair ties and date nights.
Where I ordered a ring online.

What if it ends here?, you asked,
grabbing my forearm in the courthouse.
My head could only meet your chest.
But I couldn't. One of us had to seem
as if she was keeping it together,
as if she was the breadwinner.

Court-ordered, marriage revoked, the brush
of your hand against mine's been made illegal.

The sight of it nearly gave the judge a stroke
and that's when he banged his gavel.

II.
Indeed, before long the other will dissolve
into a non-factor. Who goes there?
Someone lost. Who goes there? I certainly don't.
Later when we pass each other in the supermarket
you pretend we never fucked.

Don't let me fall through,
I think. Let the absent subject herself,
let her make it so with a secret look.

Effervescent, the rising feeling of love,
the rush bringing you to your toes.
What bubbles up, explodes.
No doubt I missed it happening.
No doubt it was microscopic at first.
But here beneath the fluorescents
you have to keep your distance.

How fast our world ruptured.
I should have stocked a bunker,
no place for us to go. None, no last resort.
No resistance. No enticing cliff to jump from
or spiced chamomile to put us to sleep
or stash of downers you got in France.
No friends, no numbers behind us,
no line of defense. No one to save us.

III.
I have gathered all my items,
noticing that the produce is misshapen.
Waste is forbidden. Store policy:
Don't get rid of what's still ripe.
We are familiar with this line of thought.
You rub your stomach as a sign
and I pretend to be shocked.

There's finality in a check-out line. You're behind me
and I pass you the plastic divider. You don't say thank you.
I brought my own tote, procedural and expected.
The checkout girl must know. I tip the bag boy.
If this is my life now I shouldn't have to carry groceries.

Pause fairly. Cool it with the paranoia.
I took notes, a mental list of your glances.
I should have asked for cash back, bought time.
Usually the cashier has words on end but she was silent.
My strongman had your same manners
and I gave him more than enough.
The things I notice after the fact.

IV.
How do you get along now that you are not allowed to work with kids
but you're being forced to have them? How's that useless degree?
Has your retirement been compromised? What’s for dinner?
Is your husband hungry? Do you still believe in surrogacy?

Our landlord was always a dick. Did he kick you out yet?
Are you my new neighbor? Who do you live with?
I have endless questions, most of which need no answer.

V.
Sensations of learning to be alone, involuntarily a nun:
eating the last piece of pizza, cold, showering in magma,
the whole bed being mine, brewing a single pot.

Instructions on how to live a holy life:
ask God if solitary confinement was what He had in mind.
Ask if the extra room on my mattress has purpose.
No more clink of mugs in the morning! Or arguments
over the morality of microwaving a leftover slice.

Stunted dilations, now a wider perception,
but the details are blurry.

Unexpected confrontations might seem uncanny,
but we were married, so you know that I go out on Wednesdays.

Mel Connelly (she/her) is a lesbian feminist poet, archivist, and art and book historian whose writing has appeared in Screen Door Review, Poetry South, Sinister Wisdom, and more. She lives in France, but her work is often inspired by her upbringing in the rural South, where there is also plenty of butter.