“If I dyed my hair red,” She cooed,

“The sun would be jealous,

and dip her fingers into herself.”

He felt the swish of her hair

as she crouched to stroke the lake;

a smudge of strawberry on his cheek.

She grated the moon’s reflection with her hands

and sighed,

“see how pale my arm is in the night”

and bit her hands together like a dove.

“Sometimes, my eyes hurt with blue”  then,

 and she took herself in, in him.

He looked at her and saw a garland on her head;

 the men that stayed there

drew hardly any breath on the thorns.