In the midst of it all
she imagined she saw a dog run by; it might have been a goat.
Feral and white, and bearing its teeth like something that belonged to the wilderness, to the openness.
That place in the south, not Cape Town, but close enough,
was oddly unfamiliar
still, she held it close against herself
swayed, pirouetted until it must
have meant something.
More than a t-shirt
less than a friend.

The others lived
To see the inside of
my bedroom,
For sport

And he doesn't know how
Easy it would be
that it doesn't take much
with me

It's what you loved
the most, still do

But he is good.
He is kind.