Leaving by heather krueger

​It was forgetting to grab a pound of butter 
that caused the downpour that Sunday morning, 
the twenty-second of May.
 
She was alone, after twenty-two years, she was
driving their vehicle, the silver one,
the one that held the shape of their sinking  
 
dreams. She had been thinking of leaving
since the first night he called her wife
and she cried herself to sleep. 
 
He fed her bread but she craved meat, 
the bite and rip, the slow wrestle, 
the thick of it in her throat. And now,
 
she is alone. She is driving 
and the windows are open and the trees 
are awake. She is alone and she wonders
who decides what gets to be told.