by Steve Klepetar
She told him the truth, that money
was the name of her aunt. He touched
her hair, they walked out in the rain.
She jingled her purse, which coughed
gold coins all over her hands.
He believed her cheeks for the light
they shed on his worn shoes.
He liked the seashell shape of her ears.
She told him that she sang an aria
woven from the tongues of wolves.
Soon they were ankle deep
and grasshoppers chanted in the grass
beyond the few remaining trees.
Otherwise the pond was silent: no frogs
ripping holes in the reeds, no leaping fish.
In that humming, humid evening he bent
her stolen name into a ring and fell
laughing into her blind and tongueless sea.