This time he unlatched the chain. He was always
too clever by half. I was only something from which to break
free. Like a black oak. Take it to where you want to go.
A green nest. Mossed charcoal.
Here’s when the dishes begin to break. He rubs his palm into
the dirty calf’s white forehead. He calls her Becky.
And this time he unravels the chain,
opens the gate. Just enough. And closes it. Wraps the chain
back around twice. Clips it. This time.
And once the gate is securely latched
he wraps his legs around me. The mudded cattle
are doing nothing. Like always they do nothing. It’s cold enough
to snow. And finally
warm enough in the van. How can I make the best of what I
have? This time I hugged him hard. I wrapped the
chain back around. Twice. And I took it to where I wanted to go.
Then I broke it. Like windows. Like
hearts for sure. Like a delicate gift I was too eager for.
