The engagement was over, so Amanda dug a well
in the middle of a field, tossed a pack of Camels
and a few cracked novels down the hole,
then dyed her hair redder in that water, so cold
it dried stiff. She wanted to see Maine’s lighthouses,
but the drive was too damn far, so she started digging.
I can see light when I look up from here, anyway.
She wears a kimono like a tired housewife,
blows smoke away from my face, clinks her cider
against my beer, a Cheers to every woman
who believed a man when he said love and true,
who let herself bloom when there was no rain.
Down there, the light becomes a white coin hanging
above her slack mouth, her tilted chin, her dull eyes.