Page 19
A glitch of late afternoon sun strikes her earring
as she hauls water from the river,
the unpredictable weight
tipping her forward—
her arm, a short length
pulled by the heavy.
Her lover, a Daedalus of sorts, idles his time
in the tall grasses, closely watches
as she retrieves fresh water.
He smoothes his rumpled clothes,
turns and returns his gold wedding band.
He will rise, fill his goat-skin flask
from the cool she fetched,
hand her a tied cloth
with blackberries she earlier picked,
point which way out.
He’ll leave by opposite way.
She puzzles whether to take direction from him.
His eyes warn she will not easily find
her way back to the village.
Cat got his tongue? His chronic eyes at it again.
His wife knows nothing of his whereabouts,
only that urgency again nipped
the soles of his sandals as he left.