“I could not flee from him,” he said,
“My eyes and cheeks were red with tears.

I know that it’s been many years,
But still I think of him sometimes.”

“But tears are not red,” I replied,
“Perhaps the blood painted your eyes.”

He walked across the bedroom floor
To watch the moon pour its white wine

Across the mountains and the pines,
And turned back to the open door.

“I never did escape his grip.
Sometimes I wonder if I had

What memory would look like now.”
I offered him a solemn quip.

“I’m sure we’d still be breaking bread—
With one less pair of bloodied eyes.”