Mary Lambert A stain lay across her right breast, moving as she breathed, darkening rhythmically where a nipple moved against flannel washed beyond endurance. Stone fingers lay on muslin, shiny from assiduous washings. Ice stings the window, working the geometry of Spanish fans. Her pain grimaces.
Small hairs move.
A blue vein throbs across her temple, running its river to her center. Yellowed floorboards reflect a dim fire burning in a grate, the room's only light. Beyond the window, land slopes under a fence toward a silver forest. Stately fronds slope in measured unison until a hill interferes. A scrim of snow surrounds the forest.