Her open wound accuses you. It leaves
its traces in the corner where she sleeps.
She sleeps a lot and rises painfully.
Outside she sniffs at markings. It is spring.
Her limp complains you’ve already begun
to go, that you have gone with the betrayers.
Always in her view you are the arm
that, tied to her, is endlessly receding;
now there is no lead at all to bind you
together, worn apart or else gnawed through.
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