We sleep like guard dogs, one eye open, groomed to unlock 

from one another’s folds. Older, a cooler grey than our adult 

years. Your breast, like a forbidden prayer or scent or thought,

presses against my arm. The war in Eurasia rages on. The dull  

flicker of the TV; the news anchor’s lips tattooed a deep 

party red mouthing vowels: A and E, and O – not I or U. 

Everything in black and white, or streams of sepia.

We hardly remember the difference between the news

and truer truths; the sum of two plus two. Harvest seasons 

pass. Dictionaries yield a sulphury marsh gas. Winters sprout

days of halcyon, golden wheat. We yearn for myths that lean on 

goddesses of crops, a mother’s loss and rage, a revenge drought. 

Love is the warrior’s call. We knew it in the womb, first breath, 

when we were made to choose: a dying art, or this waking death.