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i’ve a friend of some years
who cries into pillows when no one is looking
and wishes for an escape route
out of the fire of burning tobacco fields.

a good and decent person,
she cleans and does laundry
and loves like a mountain watching its valley
as she prepares simple fare.

she wants for a respectable existence
but never asks for a thing:
a prideful derelict of a forgotten age,
her Tristan waits for her in the back yard.

one day, she will have a good universe;
understanding her desire for symmetry
and her need to stand independently.
All the stars will be her dogs