He shuffled her memory, a dealer with a deck of cards,
she watched unable to stop him as her awareness
became some one else’s mingled on a misty night.

Her voice was like the smooth silks of a jockey,
soft, colorful until he took it and locked it
in his heart as a bank teller with the coveted key.

A malodorous smell of time decayed
slid over her body like the runner rounding
third base, sliding into home plate.

It happened so fast she had no time to react,
feel swollen in the muddy driveway, laden
crust of red clay too heavy to run, like Lot’s wife.