xviii.

On a stroll through the garden,

I pass through the iron posts and feel the needle

thread of a spider web press against my throat

for a second, then it is gone.

At the mulberry tree, I see the obese

caterpillars soon to moth,

with their fur coats furious against the heat,

and I lean out and pluck the closest berry in my reach

and crush it before I know what instinct had overtaken me.

And I bleed, and bleed

fake blood between my fingers, down the wrists.

She is slow to return, but she must

sometime in January, I dream.

She doesn’t know how to spot the fake blood

from the real;

she will see me, she will scream.