Wet kisses down the curved spine of her back,
curled white fingers, nails biting into her skin,
it’s too late.
In the morning, she feels it,
the pull of the shrouded mountains to the east.
Front door left open, leaves blowing in,
floating into dusty teacups.
The grandfather clock tells time to the yellowing wallpaper,
The chill is piercing, her feet are bare.
She climbs a tree.
Up, up, up,
above the canopy of clouds,
audience to the retreating sun and the chasing moon.
Her hairs whips her stinging face.
Old and white, her husband searches are fruitless,
his calls echo against the pines, against the deaf mountain.
A bird, black as the ocean depths,
circles, round and round, above the house
abandoned by the woman that long ago
A quick flash of a wing outside the window,
a glimpse is all the husband sees,
then the shine,
beckoning him, come.
On the sill, a perfectly round gold band,
her wedding ring,
ruins of a broken marriage.