All That's Left by Lindsay Wilson
She said easily in the hallway, I'm leaving.
Surrounded by white walls, I became what was left.
Above our apartment, for some air, I walked our dog.
The clouds erased the stars—only the tall moon was left.
I wanted a flight to a small town with a name harsh as wool,
where those of us who've escaped mauled are left.
I've traced the roads between here and the mountains,
plotted the fall, memorized the turns, a right, a left.
In the vacant lot on an old bed, a dog's leash, a map,
plastic flowers, a red ball tossed and left.
Believe me, I've understood her theft, and all
those words on my list labeled: Why she left.
I wrote my own: thieves and honor, drugs and recovery—
out of twelve steps, we had only two small ones left.
All your lists and words expose you, Lindsay,
as a fool—you are what the paltry thief has left.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem