Cutting thread to bind the chicken's legs over stale bread for roasting. The fence breaks and half a dozen rams charge into the horse pasture, reach the center and stop, confused. I pat her ass passing and she hipchecks me, leading me back for a soft caress, a kiss, a murmur, a promise, a love.
Going out later for a beer. Greek villages in which I learned what men had done to her, deepening my commitment to consent, chastity, dialogue.
"I want your tongue in me," she said, reclining on the futon couch in my one-room apartment on Church Street, opening her legs, before which I kneeled, reverent and penitent both.
Associating the sound of geese with the sun setting over Lake Champlain. Reheated Thai noodles.
Her hand working around to the back of my head.
Yet on the drive to Mansfield to visit his grave, the conversation slackens, and it's like we're tired or something, or have suddenly discovered regions of the self we're obligated to explore alone.
Venus twining over the low hills.
Not liking it, doing it anyway, getting it done. Who doesn't need to be guided?
A last book of poems in which her handwriting can be found, an anthology of Irish poets. I miss the pheasants of my childhood.
Crumbs, crosses. Craic.
These troubled times, these missing bridges.
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