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Sometime during the

night I slip out

from between the sheets and go

out to the backyard

and dig a shallow grave. I lay

Resistance

down in it

and cover her up

patting down the gritty dirt over her

face, eyes, mouth, belly. The dew on the grass makes a mud

on me and I can see the little

mound of her feet

by the starlight. The stars are moving.

Back to bed. Surrender

curls up beside me

nestles her face in the curve of my neck

breath like a moth

on my skin, in my ear

intertwines her fingers with mine

presses the soles of her feet

to my legs.

The Truth watches us both

from a dark chair in the corner of the room

gets up, walks heavy-footed

into the bathroom

and has a smoke with the lights off.

Morning comes with a breeze

bright white light

reflecting off the paint

and a luff of the curtains. I have

no memory

only the evidence

of the dry dirt and grass collected

by my feet

at the foot of my bed

and a vague recollection

of a dream

in which I tended some piece

of my heart

stored in a battered aluminum milk vessel

pressed into the coals

of a small fire

to keep it warm

and alive

high up in the Andes

with the wind whistling

waiting

just me

and the goats for company.