Crimes of Passion

My shadow self follows me
in her Costco slippers, breasts deflated
like old birthday balloons. I can’t stand
her silent dumbness, the sound of her twins
in the nursery, her husband’s money thick
in the eggshell-white walls. She walks to Foodland
for animal crackers and carrot sticks, comes home to lie flat
for a man whose penis tastes like cucumbers. She thinks
I don’t notice her careful concealer, her hours in the pantry
crying. She lies to me about the twins’ sleep schedules.
She wants me to love them just like she does. One day
I just snap and push her out the business end
of the Brigus tunnel. No one sees me do it. Her eyes
are dull as saucers of milk. Later, when I write
that I’ve killed her, I include rude details like that,
so everyone thinks I am hard and literary,
so people do not hear the scream
I let out when I drowned her, the terrible sound
of deciding, so they do not picture
her blonde hair swirling loose on the tide
wild as broken stroller wheels.