In ambit and catenary he limits her still. As she walks the perimeter she knows each book, each pen, a girder, each fabric thread a chain, each bowl he used, a stop.
She stops, lifts, replaces it with care just where. If she leaves them he’s still here in traces DNA remains.
No crime scene here. He had that courtesy to leave their home, be gone before, in dreadful courtesy, she thinks, he chose with care just where seventeen.
not two, not twelve, enough for no way back no track to follow, bring him out.
(The forest, dense, stands peaceful still, no crime scene there. Liberatur.)
No antidote, no undignified bout over days or weeks to drag him back.
She chokes on something in her throat. He swallowed seventeen (no boulders there). He made it stop before…
She’d seen him count each morning, night. Three, no more, kept him alive, go on.
His choice to leave.
She may grieve. Not yet. In grief a certain freedom lies, the chance to rage, to fly, to rave, unchained to earth, to let it go. Not yet.
She walks the house, perimeter. Pick up, replace, safe. A trace of him remains. In ambit and catenary she’s chained.