She left no note, her shopping trip

ordinary as Egg Rock on the horizon.

Her husband escaped every morning, didn’t he?

And she pretended to sleep, delaying the change

from nightgown to street clothes:

what street, who to visit?

She watches a jogger

until he’s a spot on the beach.

She hasn’t run since she was a girl,

yet something pounds inside her.

She has no words for it,

but she’s never felt so present,

so entranced at the face that stares back

from the side window: a mouth

she can twist into a smile.    

Rolling down the window, she sniffs

the rank odor of algae. It reminds her

of cabbages ripened and unpicked in their garden

among shallow‑rooted clover and celandine, weeds

she refused to pluck out. She takes pleasure in fruit

left to rot in the refrigerator beside leftovers

in plastic wrap, their blooms a luminous blue.

What dinner, who to feed? She slips off

her pumps, pulls on her son’s old running shoes.

He will search the towns to find her locked car

and never know why she was drawn to this shore.

She knew no one would notice: children

still in school, most runners tied up at noon.

And when she hardly casts a shadow,

she will run towards the water, slowly at first,

then stepping boldly onto the front page,

first a headline, then page two,

then a smudge on the fingers, an ache

that won’t go away.