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"Ash in the Mouth"

You speak of vows like broken tools,

iron bent, still hot in the hand;

seeing the feast tipped into a gutter,

and name each grain of choice.

Dogs sniff at what was once a meal,

grass bows away from the teeth.

The wind carries scents you do not forgive.

There is a field where promises rot—

fruit collapsing inward,

sweetness leaking into the soil.

Some walk there hungry, some in disgust,

all with shadows long behind them.

You throw stones at the well,

hearing no splash. I lean over,

and see only my own face, wavering.

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