I do it from my car in the driveway 
because I have no home of my own.
My husband stands in the picture glass window, 
leaning in to decipher 
the muted words my lips make 
through the windshield. 

When I come inside, I am shaking cold 
from sitting in a parked car in Utah 
in the winter 
and from wringing myself out to a stranger 
by phone. 

I will never be warm again. 

“Did you talk about me?” He asks. 
“Did she tell you to divorce me?" He asks. 

My mouth is blue my skin pricked, 
rigors and lock jaw. 

And so it goes every Thursday at noon. 
Him waiting at the window for me to turn the engine and leave. 
Me coming back inside.