Hadn't thought of you for a while,
of your licorice hair and chocolate eyes,
and your lascivious, unsweetened heart.
The epithet, 'slut', has been silent for years
and hate and loneliness long laid by;
are you still in the dry plain of Nebraska?
I came home then and you were gone,
your wedding ring on the dresser and
emptiness filled the house to the rooftop.
I'd followed you to the northland, hoping
for happiness that might last; it didn't,
and I'm glad the bear came back for you.