He lifts her easy,
like a new lamb
through the farmhouse door.
Asleep—too much beer,

too much stepping,
too many stories
of crops and the wife
failed and vanished.

He didn’t say she’s away,
better she’s dead.
Muddy boots walk
clean across her rug.

He’s weighing the prize
before laying her
on the davenport,
damp bed in the parlor.

Light one lamp
and stoke the fire,
burn the morning chill
off moldy wallboards.

The woman’s eyes
are closed to the heat,
her rainy breasts luring
hands holding red curls.

Drizzle weeps on windows.
The night is drenched
in the first of spring,
fog swamps the scene.

The fire and the night
will burn and die
in the faded flower
and stained walls.