Dear Forgiveness,

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Remember when we met on OkCupid?

          You called the profile picture of me in scorpion pose

beneath a palmetto tree playful and suggestive.

                    How long can you hold that? you asked, and for maybe two minutes

I was rare and witty, a smart romantic comedy.

Dear Forgiveness, I waited three hours

          for you at the corner table of a bistro renowned for its kale crisps.

When you didn’t show up, I gave the world

                    my phone number, I resorted to the usual shock-and-awe —

your empty chair like a burning acre,

my tongue like the cotton plugging an aspirin bottle.

Even before the headache arrived, I was treating it

          with blackout blinds or the caffeine cure. One vacancy

follows another; have you noticed? Pills plopped

                    into a clammy palm — full-hollow things,

as in hobbies or strong opinions.

Dear Forgiveness, I have found the missing footage

          of the little girl who got none.

I have gobbled all of the cherries you said we’d eat

                    together. I have gobbled all of the consecrated fruits,

and I’m not sorry.