There are human statues in the woods in baby powdered bodies. The woman opens her eyes: two men fighting with swords. We’re sharing popcorn, watching the soundless night clash like a black and white macabre. Her moon painted braid is cracking and flaking. Or is it dust from the high beams? We’re bored, so she takes the sword to cut off her own clay head
where rubies fall from the inside,
like bees from their hive or
my great grandmother’s glass candies