The house open, she hates she loves the man. He's of that available sort, cleaning, helping, smiling. He knows he feels how angry women do. He thinks anger is just a thing to soothe. He never knew what coming from Slovakia means. He knows about tomatoes and salads too. He's of the smoothest sort. She bites often. She taught him all. The bed is broken, the woman on the go. The man once said, silent. He likes her eyes. Is proud of her nature. Has no clue. Sweet man. She burns. She says. He doesn't listen and the gesture: not listening. Smiling. The way we destroy one another pretending we know better. Stroking spiders. The fingers the legs the tip of the tongue. He swims in and out of the precious body. Swallows the blood. Keeps on pretending. That's what we do.
The path from the house goes up. Graveyard at the top. Vineyards on the other side. Rain and sun and wind depending on the mood. Jesus is covered in moss the cross fell a few years ago an old woman had climbed on a tree and jumped so as to strike.
He came back. Years later. Waiting for her.
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