We almost had it, that
golden spider-web ending,
a halo hanging from dewy leaves.
You looked up and smiled at it, pointed,
marveled.

But it was me –
me who cut it down,
who reached up and yanked,
who watched the yarn unravel,
spiral,
fall.

It was my hand that scooped
damp twigs and dirt away,
and made a shallow grave,
and watched the halo flicker
and fade.

You stood, arms at your sides,
defenseless, or else hopeless
and watched my eulogy,
and saw my mud-stained face
cry, and did
nothing
at all.