Posthumus in Rome
Imogene is in
the forest turning into
a boy,

and he is saying that
to show emotion is to be
less of a man while hands
pull tarot cards up from
cold mouths -

the chimney is southward
of the marriage bed – the garrote
curled through fingers, as
strangers pull her hair aside,
a brick braid down her back.

Posthumus dreams of webs,
Imogene under lace, the inner
ear and the sounds it remembers,
like her voice pulling his name
from the back of her throat.