She dresses his wounds
in paper towels and cloth
peppers blades
of grass over the eyes’
lidded mounds

His heart stirs

She can hear it
vibrating through
her ear tunnel

a bird rattling
to life
in its shell

So she cakes dust
over his fair skin
the way he told
her to—daubing

the interlacement
of hair-follicles until
they glisten sepia—

She senses the gulp
the gallop
of his veins

knowing he has a
thirsty body, limbs
unwilling to share in
the corporeal drink

like wolves’ teeth
ensnaring shreds of
meat

Even when you’re
still, she murmurs
gauze into his brain,

You are not. You
can’t be.

His terracotta shell
of stillness splits
open

He lurches upward and girdles
her with his arms
dust lifting like
flour off a table

She screams and he
giggles

as the teacher
beckons them back
inside