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by Bryan G. Thompson
My heart was a thing and
you were the American goddess
who touched it and turned it to
Greek tragedy.
We walked past white houses and
futile children who toyed with
days and into a darker, deeper
twilight brimming with confused moons.
Our hands separated as you used
yours to wash old, white bread from
our plates and I used mine to
throw over the last few pages of an old book.
Now I look under the window and
find the sliver of soap that was yours.
Yours to do with as you chose and you
chose to waste it away to nearly nothing.
No young voices lift the banners of
this house that stands tall and waits.
Only old and deep, rising from my sore
chest and calling warily to a rusty dog.