‘i am weary red now, though still i remember
when we wed, we swore
that same oath that all wives and husbands swear.
 
‘but
when they tell our story, it can’t be one of ever-constance,
the two of us, our fair-weathered fidelity.
 
‘eight years a widow, poor at the world’s whim,
a stranger flashed gold in my eyes, a stranger was gold in my eyes.
for a lick of gold, i’d realize any sin.
i think that
eight years a kept man, under Aurora’s immortal whim,
you, the dog, saw in a stranger’s hand the strength to bite back.
his spear for your touch.’
 
(her cries to Pluto omitted
as she turns to a cloud of blood in the gentle
forests where Diana hunts
but does not listen for the gurgled sound of wounded
women who love their husbands
even when they kill their wives.)