Turalura she sings to herself, breathing
in, out, him staring into the fireback
numbering his grumbles, his what he now
only wished he’d said then but thought
too late, later, the moment gone.
Turalura, turalura. As for her
the bread she bakes is soon stale,
his side of the bed always lumpy,
her sex cold dry inhospitable, then
his inventory of misery begins, cunt cunt.
Turalura, lureia. She knows the moment
he’s wound himself up and the wire hisses out of him,
taut, barbed, edged, and it’s thereabouts
she’ll go up, go to sleep in her white sheets
mumbling Is there any wonder? Turalura.