i coax not from the fountain

your loyal tongue lapping up the gelatin

spread thin on platters for banquet.

ten - ten we fingered and toed

to a clapping hand of an old gentleman

seated on the bench. the atmosphere.

we will not debate the ketubbah we vowed

in the darkness.

you choose to bathe in the roman spa

while i, in the stream near the cottage,

wash my hair in privacy. barefoot

wrapped in cotton, walking up the path,

by the fire, cross legged,

i recite the words i memorised

spun like a web into my mind,

she knitted me sweaters with the codes,

and i wore them. the fibers humming

to my tissues, the waters of my small frame

remembering.

so you, there. and i here.

and i think the final batch of hand pies

are finished baking.

so you will do that. and i will cast stones

on the rug. for.... the abyss.

ⴲ.