mary presses
a wet hand to my
forehead. drink
she tells me
and so i dart out my
tongue,
lap around the
mole on her inner wrist,
leave ash
in my wake.
trail houses as i plough the fields
for wheat,
as she counts my coppers
and a stranger kills her
doctor-husband.
mary’s palm
resting on the small of my
back,
and i buckle.