last night you told me you were

surveying the property lines

of her New England estates

through satellite eyes.

and i could not fathom this girl i am not:

tennis whites and riding boots

aligned in neat closets,

turned-up starched collars

and gold at her wrists.

i've got jealousy thickening in my veins

making silver sickles out of blood-platelet dimes.

it breaks me up until i'm a puddled spill, lapping

at the floor tiles.

no solidity.

no self.

for how could you love me beside her?

she's got a house in Nantucket—

clapboard beach mansion,

shuttered Victorian seaside retreat.

envy curls its mean fist 'round my thin throat

because for her, you're always in reach

while i'm stuck clutching at insurmountable miles

and empty mailboxes.