A bold black cricket came in from the night
with a message wrapped around his leg
I offered him bread, my body, my bed
and an indigo blue Russian egg.
He had only the song that crickets know
taught them by their dying mothers
He played it on the silk and scar of my skin
and told me there would be no others.
My hair is blond, his body was black
and hard as the truth in a mirror
The night was warm, the dawn too quick
and the last time drew one season nearer.