The engagement was over, so Amanda dug a well

in the middle of a field, tossed a pack of Camels

and a few cracked novels down the hole,

then dyed her hair redder in that water, so cold

it dried stiff. She wanted to see Maine’s lighthouses,

but the drive was too damn far, so she started digging.

I can see light when I look up from here, anyway.

She wears a kimono like a tired housewife,

blows smoke away from my face, clinks her cider

against my beer, a Cheers to every woman

who believed a man when he said love and true,

who let herself bloom when there was no rain.

Down there, the light becomes a white coin hanging

above her slack mouth, her tilted chin, her dull eyes.