Wormwood.

The cups were clean and copper,
and Mars hung over our heads
as we,
a family in so many senses,
melted sugar and
spoke of dead men
who had once hiked
our mountains.

Then, our chests opened
and we fingered
the spines of
books prized and
dusty.
The green fairies
did their dances
in our smoke rings
and we laughed.

The house was one
of a thousand
tiny memories,
and our talk was
plumb and true.

He forced the pen back
into my hand,
and I kissed her goodnight,
and we stumbled
home
as the sun gently
scowled in
the East.

And so
the words,
strung like brilliant,
dead pearls between
us,
had arced from
one end of our
horizon
to the other.