I wept
holding a copy
of your bill of divorcement
found within the stacks
of paperwork
you had set aside
for kindling.

I saw
how the current of life
flows to a bottleneck
of baptisms 
and opens again 
​like sand
in a hourglass
overturned.

I bore
you children
from the womb of youth
when all I wanted
was to be seen
as a first wife,
to be with you
as God intended
coupling to be:
a cross-pollination.

But now
my cherry blossoms
wilt in the late frost
of your celibacy.

You cannot hear
my weeping
as the apples
catch fire:
my tears fall
smoke-silent
watching
the orchard
burn.

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