They built their home up,
one speck at a time – wax, salt,
She built herself up,
one word at a time – witty, creative,
They worked every day: diggers tunneling,
scavengers hunting, the queen
She worked every day: reading Jane Austen,
painting mason jars, framing ocean
He crushed them in one motion,
foot flattening the hill, big toe
twisting into the dirt – nothing left
but the stamp of a sole.
He crushed her in one motion,
analytical eyes scanning her figure, slick
tongue dripping his poison – nothing left
but the stamp of a soul.
Friends high-fived him, pulled out
magnifying glasses to burn
off the homeless survivors.
Friends high-fived him, flicked
cigarette buds at her to burn
off the last of her courage.
How can we love each other,
when we are taught
to crush anthills?