She’ll be picking dandelions, and the sun
will be high on his throne, leaning down
to gently kiss her shoulders. The wind will be
caressing her sunburned cheeks like
her mother used to when she was a child.
Her brow, dotted with pearls of sweat, will furrow;
the meadow in her irises will spot a chrysanthemum,
like a gold coin among copper. When she reaches
for it, her determination will turn to surprise
as she realizes she’s holding my hand,
as she realizes she’s being pulled into my chariot,
black like death’s eyelashes, as she realizes
the gentleness in my eyes.
Then she’ll grab a pomegranate and bite it,
feeling the taste of a fireplace on her tongue.