He was benevolent and chivalrous,
she had thought.
They spent humid nights sitting close
to each other, upon wicker thrones.
Her brown hair was tightened into
a neverending braid, like rapids constricted
Into a fountain. She wrapped the strands,
each with an orange glimmer, around her shoulders.
He loved to unravel it.
They drank plenty, with red wine sloshing
in their goblets, which stood proudly beside the
golden filigree plates, heaped with black cherries.
The pits were always scattered at their feet, posed
in a reflective stance. She watched the heat flow over
Their silverware from the lantern they kept with them
for light and guidance; the flame burned furiously
without quivering.
The wine bottles cropped up to wherever they swayed to,
at any time during the sweltering solstice,
and the fruit was abundant.
She dragged her fire along and felt fulfilled, full enough
to believe what he brought to her would never
end, that the harboring light she hugged so tightly
could not fade.
