She has a name hanging
in a back orchard somewhere.
Cowbells are ringing. I gave it up
like an omelet to a woman married
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.