they were playmates, first.
he negotiated with apple blossoms
and she stomped in puddles with yellow boots
and made friends with the worms
wriggling into chinks in mud walls.
on her twenty-fifth birthday he gave her diamonds
and promised a house made of glass. she lined
the windowsills with basil and coriander, tarragon and mint,
rescued garden slugs
and sang lullabies to the peach tree.
later, he drank whiskey with identical suits
who carried identical ballpoint pens in their pockets.
she wrote her name in salt on the kitchen table
and dreamed in grocery store aisles
in front of soup can sculptures and unspilled milk.