As he fades in and out of consciousness,
he glances up into her
eyes like pools, frigid and depthless,
her face large, dark, pocked
with crude cut features,
nose like flint daggerhead,
cheeks like the rounded cap
of a mountain skirted by evergreens,
unsmiling lips, flat and thin,
teeth like limestone
and stalactite-like chin.
Her hair hangs down in coiled dreadlocks,
she wears dozens of trinkets on leather thongs
made of bones and bark
and shiny baubles that once adorned trees,
all round her bull-broad neck,
and a gown of motley patches stitched on
in yellow, greens and brown.
Behind her there is a roaring fire
and shadowy men with antlered masks
carrying spears and shields
and dancing warrior dances
to thunderous drums and pipes.
Noticing that he was once more lucid,
she grins a rare grin and whispers,
“You’ve come back to me, little goat.”