she sits alone in the turgid
darkness, her swollen breasts
full as a gourd, empty as
sin; missing his boneless

gums. she weeps, but no tears
come; she is dry as tumble-weed. her
belly opens like a venus fly-trap to
capture one of those wrinkled little

bodies, but there is no going
back. the darkness has taken
him.
the mirror throws back a cowering

dwarf, leering and grim. her face peeks
timidly from behind his
hump. she can think of
nothing to say. only, like Anne Boleyn,

she offers him a coin; and her
belated forgiveness.