was where the lepers breathed.
It could have been one of those

forlorn grottoes
on his side of their double

bed, where they slept
all those years

without touching.
Rhythm had failed them

too many times:
It was the tropics

but she covered up.
Sometimes his eyes

stared out of a darkness
that ate his flesh.

Susan Kelly-DeWitt | Mudlark No. 33
Contents | The Maiden Name