Love Is Another Thing

Love Is Another Thing Sitting at the table spinning the creamer running her fingers through sugar the kids spilled at supper, Sue suddenly says, “Don, love is another thing.” Since love is another thing I have to go rent a room, leave behind eight years, five kids, the echoes of me raging at noon on the phone, raging at night, the mist of whose fallout ate her skin, ate her bones, left her a kitten crying high in an oak let me free, let me free Donal Mahoney