Whipped through Italy tagged to a man
running from and running to monsters, while she
was haunted by Harriet. I have a favorite tree
in Berne. I stopped every day on the bridge,
fingers curling through the rusted wire, amazed
by the nearly burgundy leaves, exploding, defiant
against so much green. I made some friends
by the river, men from Africa who promised
in broken French to treat me like a queen. I think
they would have liked Mary, too.
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