This is it, then.
I've been denying for months
that it'd come to this but
here we are.

There shouldn't be a line in the sand.
There isn't, actually,
just an old card table
that holds a car seat
and some strange, glittery, pear-shaped candles,
(The glitter is peeling.)
but I can see the sides being taken.
The boy who has always been mine
stands beside me;
we face you together
with disparaging indifference
while the one I grew up with
plays with golf clubs in the grass behind us,
unaware.
You face me
but avert your eyes.
You are with those two now;
they stand a little apart.
Our host can see it, too,
so he hovers,
unsure. Like always.
Erica sides with everyone and nobody,
rolls down the drive on her five-dollar skates,
mourning the rocking horse.

We used to be without boundaries,
but today in a garage sale driveway,
the line is drawn.
From now on,
we will not cross it.