And to have to leave was like tearing a child

from its mother; and when you were gone,

you prattled of nothing but me, as a child

prattles only of toys it loved but lost; and when

we vowed, you vowed to never leave, but two

small clouds of running feet and a broken-down

house rose like a garden of snakes around you.

Love turned to grief and grief became hate. Then,

it was winter to live with you, constant hail;

and when I looked in the mirror, I hated the face

I saw, knowing you hated it more. On the day

you left, I sat on the rotting stairs, holding two

howling babies, in the middle of the woods,

without a job, alone. “We had some good times,”

you said, snapping your face into a helmet;

roaring on your Norton away.