His leaving of her is like the pulling of a wishbone--
the pulling apart of two things, once one,
from one another--
each at opposite ends, wanting the same thing--
for the fuller fraction of something firm, real.
the tight flexibility like a bow pulled taut to kill,
like the Fates and their vital thread.
And what was once one is cleaved in two.
He is left with more
her heart, and she
with a heart
Share This Poem