There's a hound inside her lungs, breathing the scent the man left. Sweat gathered
       in clumps, a salt-water river through his forehead lines. His eyes, cowboy-hat
       shaded. He said flowers belong under rugs. Clusters of veined petals, soiled
       roots—he said they all belong under rugs. Her back rushed to the wall, corkboard
       pin held between his calloused hands, almost, almost on her skin. Almost, almost on
       her brown skin, her branching veins rising, plumping like mountains, then settling—
       hard. She thinks this is what thunder feels like when the sky grows sharp with light.
       A decade later, light will pierce her in the form of a woman's tongue, sharp enough
       to slice the begonias she hid within bells. Muted lullaby, bloodhound chorus.