while she makes tea something strangely
familiar flows down her inner thigh. like ink.
after many years she bleeds again.

she stands overcome - as if a whole orchard
blossoms up in her throat, as if an old fashioned
happiness leaks into her body. she feels she's

opening shutters towards apples, towards
shades that haze with birds and cicadas
and sweltering distances - as if a

child's laughter overflows in a bath
turning her cheeks vulnerable - intimately
blushed through with daily closeness

as if her abdomen swells young and
strong again around the most beautiful that
she was; her neck abides by so much light

she carries the tea out onto the veranda
the sky slakes soft for this time of
morning; the city glistens like a brimming dam
he comes to sit next to her. peacefully he
stirs his tea. in this way they sit
so far left behind in loss - for their age

so carefully rare in closeness