Cover our daughter. Instill in her
a locust heart.
It is not a covenant we can make.
She in the den with rich mahogany eyes
reads Milton with distrust.
“How far is love?
Is it boundless as the green?” she asks,
and I am held breathless.
Captive and suffering.
“There is a danger in the silhouette, you see?
The sheer guise it represents,
the madness that’s found in the contours
of the body.
Contempt drives us, though. It is our one shared
virtue,” she laughs
while crossing the room, the light slowly failing
with each step
against her rising shadow.
Her arms are defenseless, and yet they respond
only with pearled indifference
to the slightest touch
of chill in the air.
She shifts the weight of her loneliness delicately
into me. She grows
as I diminish
I am the small god worthlessly seeking penance.
Fastened to the stone. Cast into the dark under-
of a deprived world.
She devours my restraints.
Out and beyond the waking sun drifts blind.
The countryside falls into ruin.