She guessed her husband had unlocked the chest
in which she kept her private secret things.
She’d put her past behind. She wore two rings
a wedding ring, a mourning ring. The best
is never perfect and her past was done.
She’d chosen to regard her sea as dead
and did not gaze at it. Sometimes in bed
she dreamed of crashing waves, or how the sun
shines on the water. But he took the skin
she’d set aside. Revenge is always fair;
inside a closet found a shirt of hair
that did not smell of penitence for sin.
The white she-wolf among the woods ran free.
The great bull-seal swam further out to sea.