She has a name hanging
in a back orchard somewhere.
Cowbells are ringing. I gave it up
like an omelet to a woman married
to perfection.
I am missing limbs for limbs,
heart for heart. Who am I to promise
life to another broken life?
Her name stands on a balance beam
between two tongues, heated tongues,
a melting puddle of ownership.
Where did she come from?
Where does she belong?
Tug-of-war. I own her more.
Someone who should have been born
is hanging in a back orchard somewhere.
I let her go. I love her more.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 
Wow…this is good stuff. What a strong opening: “She has a name hanging/ in a back orchard somewhere.” That stopped me cold. The rest is spot-on, as well. My brain’s a bit fried from giving exams today, so my feedback isn’t great, but I look forward to read more of your work. I write poetry, too, though not as much as I’d like to these days.
Thank you for leaving a comment, brain fried or not 🙂 its nice to hear. What do you teach?
English and humanities these days. Used to teach English in public school…shudder. No more of that.
I could only imagine what that would be like. I am grateful for blogs because of the strong number of people that actually enjoy reading writing.
Brrr!! Oh I love the bloody gift this is
🙂