Algae, a green ship floating along the rim ocean’s rim, under the moon. In the room, I rifled through a notebook in search of what would save me.

Long before you were born, Swan, I had a neck like yours, with dark eyes. My body caught up with my neck and my eyes are green; when I weep they look like Christmas.

‘You’re not with me,’ I said. Tomatoes reddened in the garden and the cardboard cup of my heart crumpled under its beating.

Was my new friend was enjoying a joint in the city while I, Country Mouse, cried like and about a baby, specifically the lack thereof? Bad music stumble-spun around the living room turntable.

Somewhere, a woman harvested baby corn. Somewhere else, a body was laid into the earth as gemstone into crown.

Our wedding rings don’t sparkle the way they used to. Though I love you far more desperately than I ever loved honeysuckle, even in my thirstiest times in that swamp.