She folds herself like a prayer             and he hesitates,                                 as if counting the knuckles of her vertebrae were the task at hand,                         as if he might bow to touch her cheek,             kiss her brow, whisper into her hair.                               His weapon readied at his hip, quivering in his hand—                                       he could almost be alone with her,             and I could be a stranger passing, paused                                                 to see through a window a dimly lit room where a wife braces before the coarseness of her man.                                                             Struck, she buckles then rises,             presses the tip where her neck sings open.                                                 What, I wonder, does the blade belong to:             the hand or the wound?                        He looks as if he has no answer for this,             but is asking.                              He looks as if he wants to belong to a god naïve enough to forgive.