‘he walked in beauty,’ she said.
‘his eyes were brown marshes, his lashes were like willow trees. his eyebrows shot together made a dam between his forehead and his face. his cheeks were steep and sheer, his mouth was a volcano. his breath was like a dragon’s and his heart was torn from a bull. the sinews in his neck were white columns leading to the bolts of his collar-bone. i can still trace the cavity of his throat. his chest was a strongbox, his ribs were made of brass, they shone through his skin when the sun was out. his shoulder-blades were mountain ranges, his spine a cobbled road. his belly was filled with jewels and his cock woke at dawn. fields of wheat still remind me of his hair, and when i see a hand whose fingers are longer than its palm i think it might be him come to touch me again.
‘but he never touched me. it was a boy he loved. i pierced them with a single arrow where they lay.
‘i still think it was poetic.’