She said, if this is what peace is

I don't want it, and resumed chewing

her fathers tobacco. The round tin

pressed into her hip, her pockets

flattened against her flat brown body

in the skin tight jeans she wore for you.

They don't even live here, I want to hiss.

They will never know you.

She crosses the bridge with them, plank

by plank sounding under their truck tires,

each thump another movement away from me.

She stays overnight most nights, reappearing

at lunch, smelling of sweat and grass 

and something I can't name, nighttime.

Or she slips silently back into the house

in the dark-dim of predawn, backlit

with lavender and secrets. 

I am a little black spider, she teases me,

crouching in the corners of the rooms.

I call her a wasp and run before she can swat me.