Her lips so dry and arid.
Her body capsized in blankets.
Her hair was standing its ground.
Our father could read of the Achaeans, and the ships who were ready for launching.
But there was no more watery wilderness.
No more wine-dark sea.
Just a single boat gone rotten, but unable to sink completely.
* * *
—
But yes.
Yes, Goddamn it!
Sometimes there were good times, there were great times.
There was Rory and Henry, waiting outside Clay’s math class, or science, just coolly leaning:
The dark-rust hair.
The swerving smile.
“C’mon, Clay, let’s leave.”
They all ran home and sat with her, and Clay read, and Rory spoke: “I just don’t see why Achilles is being such a sook.”
It was the smallest sway of her lips then.
She still had gifts to give.
“Agamemnon stole his girlfriend.”
Our dad would drive them back again, lecturing at the windshield, but they could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
* * *
—
There were the nights when we stayed up late, on the couch, watching old movies, from The Birds to On the Waterfront to things you’d never expect from her, like Mad Max 1 and 2. Her favorites were still from the ’80s. In truth, those last two were the only ones both Rory and Henry abided; the rest were all too slow. She’d smile when they whined and moaned.
“Boring as bloody bat shit!” they’d crow, and it was safe, a routine.
A metronome.
* * *
—
And finally then, the morning I’m looking for, and she must have known she was close—and she came for him at three o’clock:
She carried the drip through the door of our bedroom, and first they sat on the couch.