HEATHER C. KRUEGER

I Had No More Left To Give

Accounts emptied, a missing left ventricle,
a swath of hay in the field, right turn

onto the highway, sunset in the rearview
mirror. Tongue pressed into teeth. The kids

threw flat smooth stones in the lake.
Crammed back seat. Limit reached.

Half a lifetime together when I left
their birth certificates in the basement.

Tomato cages imprisoned under
the deck. A brown leather album

of wedding photos, the kitchen table
still set. I wanted to rip the wind chimes

off the back of the house but the sparrows
were fucking and I didn’t want to startle them.