If things don't work out
I'll buy the belt
with the fashionable silver buckle
we saw on Canyon Road.
If we can't make peace
I'll order the leather duster and swagger
across the plaza in Santa Fe
cross-dressing for the girls.
If you leave I'll go back
for the Navaho blanket
and the pawn ring, bargain
with the old woman who will know
I intend to buy.
If you pack your things,
if you undress in the bathroom,
if you see me for what I am,
I'll invest in the folk art mirror
with the leaping rabbits
on either side, I'll spring
for the Anasazi pot with the hole
in the bottom where the spirit
of the potter is said to escape
after her death.
If you say I never intended
to share my life, I'll haunt the museum
shops and flea markets,
I'll don the Spanish riding hat,
the buckskin gloves with fringe at the wrists,
I'll step into the cowboy boots
tanned crimson and designed to make
any woman feel like she owns the street.
If you never touch me again
we'll both survive this simmering summer—
you down to two boxes of books,
a standing lamp, and a portable closet.
I'll do what my mother did
after she buried my sister:
she outfitted herself in an elegant suit
for the rest of her life.