Her open wound accuses you. It leaves
its traces in the corner where she sleeps.
She sleeps a lot and rises painfully.
Outside she sniffs at markings. It is spring.
Her limp complains you’ve already begun
to go, that you have gone with the betrayers.
Always in her view you are the arm
that, tied to her, is endlessly receding;
now there is no lead at all to bind you
together, worn apart or else gnawed through.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
It’s Cool to Love America Again
The media would like you to know that the Great American State Fair, which took over the…
The Founders and the Common Good
The dominant public philosophy among American elites is modern liberalism, often referred to merely as “liberalism.” Two…
Letters—August/September 2026
My first thought on “Boomer–Zoomer Housing War” by Carmel Richardson was the title; my second thought after…
