your musket, how you once shot the dogs
tearing at your goats' soft ears: bite the powder
loose, spit and load the ball, ram the wad. Tight
to the shoulder. Fire. Bite, spit. Load, ram.
Fire. At dusk you stood in the tall grass
in a pale blue dress that was a deeper
indigo at the seams, where the original color
had been tucked away from the sun. Inside, you lit
a candle and spoke. Your hand on mine still warm as tallow
hardening, you said, You are not made for this place. Pack
a bag with some plate. Sell it. Take what you can. Sail
to the Indies. A dog barked distantly, and the goats shifted.