Nothing’s left. I learn the bad news over good merlot
and unremarkable dinner, fraught with pieces of shell and cavernous want:
the muse has quit. Up and left with no trace,
a body turned away, a disappointed lover’s back, at night.
No longer hungry, I feed crumbs to magpies who skip, peck, sample
what shines, what glitters, what reflects. They’d rather eat the sun.
Consider fight or flight: in the kitchen, you knock dishes in the sink
until something breaks. Eggs shattered in tonight’s omelet, us still not full.
How can I hunger for this? Even the bread grows hollow, yeast over-risen,
bubbling into empty spaces. No food assembles here.
Crumbs dry in my mouth. I taste the stale-
mate. Black birds no longer sing. The wine is gone.