I describe to you my dark house,

a metaphor for childhood;

crumbling ruins forgotten,

diseased and aging .

I married for love, for children,

for ammunition. Some houses

are better left un-opened; a new life

is a fragile form of vengeance.

Today, I prefer alone. When I close

my eyes, my visions are of trees, of wolves,

of falcons hunting late into the evening,

horses grazing lazy on the hills, a sea

rolling under black cliffs