the last we spoke I told you the blackness of her ankle had clouded her eyes. it wasn't gentile, I assure you, and she does not feast on her gran's apple pies in heaven, nor does her voice ring like silver spoons together, in rhythm, hard and soft against the fat thigh of neighbour *****a. you should have forgotten her by now but every slender now and again you lay limp wafting in her lulls and feeling the loose reminders of her airy breath in the night when she bathed in the shallows and spoke softly to her pet chicken in the half moon light not complaining and not wishing for more than but a bite to eat. a tiny child waded there, barely speaking words, white little fingers through her brown clumps of hair.
