My first husband was a drug addict when
I married him on an October afternoon

on a bright October afternoon with white
boutonnière pinned proud, he was clean

yet clean implies addiction, snow-blown-
white-lines-blank-stare, slate now clean except

for remnants of white lines carelessly smeared
along the corner of the powder room sink

our white ceramic sink that I carefully wiped clean
Saturday morning ritual to scour away the night before

though scouring away does not make things clean,
a cross-hatching of events stays stitched in skin

our tip-toeing became a cross-hatching of events
the scribble of sandpiper prints in wet shorelines

the scribble of prints washed away in wet shorelines
my first husband was a drug addict when I married him.