all those afternoons after.
After three weeks of rain, the broad baking lawn felt like a portion of hell.
Spikey tangled Scots thistles made an impenetrable barrier to my bare feet
I stood trembling in Christ's thorns, the brush fence between heaven and earth
doing this, in remembrance of you
three times more to make sure it comes true
and manifested through the rock she carried in her pocket
hanging there in the fold of cloth on her hip
a baby miniature pig, only 5 kilos, and 3 feet long
with short stiff hairs emerging from the softly lined skin
we are breathing together, man and beast, our footfall feather-soft and car crash-loud.
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