A few weeks later, in the wee hours,  
   you picture the woman of your life 
flung on her new lover’s DreamCloud 
   scratching his back like a cheetah. 

She was your high priestess,  
            your Holy Mother. But that ended  
when she stormed out—after you forgot  
    to mention how brilliant her poem was, 

when you found comfort  
   spending time on the sofa,  
and left muddy boot prints 
   on the white hallway runner. 

To you, her body was iconic, the way  
   her hips swayed in her low-rise Wranglers, 
and in the morning she winked at you 
   over her shoulder while scrambling eggs. 

Did that yahoo fall for her  
   like a dropped double-scoop cone?  
When he kisses her, does she still  
   taste of pistachio almond ice cream? 

You should have followed her lead,  
   dreamed big, reached for the light, 
crafted a whole new autobiography. 
   You owed her a church,  

or at the very least, a pew.