When asked to map the downfall of our relationship

my fingers hover over the East Coast.
Names of places blur together, images blur together,
I know what happened, I know what happened,
my voice can lift above the blur, I can sing, I can sing,
I can sing about you

and me at the lighthouse–the trip
to an artist’s colony somewhere on the East Coast.
The plums I let rot rolled down the street.
The expensive sandwich shop turned you away.
Then the place that was my surprise, the place was my surprise,

surprise, surprise! Here’s more of your anger
when I don’t live up to the other woman
in your head, surprise

surprise, the lighthouse looms
as we walk down to the water
a woman tells us

she collects lighthouse experiences, tallies them
on an extensive field guide

I want to tell her I don’t know where I am
when I am in the boat of your anger

the lighthouse itself small, suffocating,
I won’t go there, up there to the top,
he says

my body is too big,
says over last night’s dinner no one 
wants tits all stretch-marked out, 
edits travel photos to hide the size
of my stomach, has become so embarrassed
by my body I can’t,
I can’t

go up there

the humiliation

the attempt

his anger growing
sun burning reflecting
off white walls

this was supposed to be my special
my safe this was supposed to be
this was supposed to be

I want to tell her I don’t know where I am

surprise he said

to the lighthouse

he said