Ode to My Husband's Ex-Wife

"There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you." --Sylvia Plath

What happened to you
between birth and thirty-two
that made you chew
him up like beef stew
then sit back, shine your tooth?

Your chubby bottom trimmed by a yoga guru;
your crocodile tears, your reptile tears, poor you.
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, you needed a new hair-do,
a fresh bank account, a beachside house in Malibu.
True, true.

But if you sat on your yoga mat and thought it through--
of all he had done, would do--for you--
of the life you'd have lived--trips to Xanadu--
the love full of heat and baby-coos--
then how could you? And for who?

A man with a heart like an igloo
and the rest of him a slack, limp pool cue.
A man who reeks of honey and cat poo
who, in ten years, will only be denture glue.
He's the one for you.

I can't say I'd disagree with you--
who else could equal a shrew like you?--
Your crude fingers dripping with witch's brew,
your body bright as vomit spew:
they should lock you up and stick you in a zoo.

You run like a bad tattoo
but you keep showing up like a nasty bruise:
everything you touch turns black and blue--
complimentary colors, your favorite hue--
even your ocean-view can't stand you.

You make me sick--you know it's true--
with your slim new ass and your Jimmy Choos,
your honey-poo man, your yeasty juju.
The whole world rues you--true, true.
But not as much as I do.

Boo.