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ottles shattering against the<br />
walls of your trailer, belt buckle<br />
flying by your head as you ducked<br />
these misdirected missles of hate<br />
aimed for the deserting husband<br />
she saw in the mirror of your face.<br />
And surely not the hunger of the gossips,<br />
sniffing out the details of what<br />
might have happened in the back<br />
of your Ford in the softness<br />
of the hay we fed your horse,<br />
or along the bank of the pond<br />
where we said we had been<br />
only swimming in the summer heat.<br />
In the end, they have licked<br />
their lips and tasted more of you<br />
than you could have imagined, taking<br />
our place by the tracks between<br />
their jaws, leaving nothing,<br />
not even a crumb of you.<br />
—Mitchell Cox<br />
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