She was willing
to split herself
in two
but he wasn’t.
And ain’t that
a goddamn metaphor.
Ain’t that
just like a woman,
to cleave herself
in half,
fracture her body
along the fault lines
of his ambition,
bury her seeds
in the soil
of his garden
and pray
he water them
enough to bloom.
And ain’t that
just like a man—
to notice
but choose not
to see,
to see
but opt not
to comprehend.
To accept her sacrifice
as expected,
as necessary,
as penance,
his due.
To take
without considering,
how much he asks,
she give.
one black experience 
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