In her home Pound Shop frogs look

down on her moon specked tears
at his words to her over
what to do about the
Staffy that ragged the leather sofa
in their Caravan on their 
honeymoon at Skeg Vegas.

Coffee goes cold in their mugs
as a money spider creeps
into her hair when she laughs
at his suggestion that she only defends
others, turns her second hand diamond
wedding ring round and round
her finger because it feels good.

Her tears taste like morning salt
from the high tide waves, and his night sweat
when he is full into her,
dry sand in his belly button
briefly grits her newly shaven thighs.

She nurses his cut eye, broken ribs,
after he stands up to young men who crush
with their boots a blackbird’s head who has a broken wing,
both left bloody on path of recently converted
Working Men’s pub to Seventh Day Adventist church.
She buys him a dog as mate until he gets fit again
while she works at the Post Office.

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