They dropped her off, with luggage, at his house
as ransom, or the payment of a debt.
After two days, she hadn’t seen him yet.
No sign of life but an enormous louse

left on the pillow next to hers. Some hair
tangled and thick and bristly on the floor.
And in the West Wing, suddenly slammed door
when she approached. He did not want her there

but debts are debts. He was afraid she’d jeer.
And she feared worse, with reason. Still, the books
she found on chairs, the silent pastry cooks
who left eclairs, slowly allayed her fears.

They met. His claws, his mane, his hooves, the rest.
She thought they’d manage. All was for the best.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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