Ocras

It was there in the delicate arc of her clavicle,

the fine rise of her cheek, her eyes’

dewy sweep.

It is here, dragging at the ragged edge

of his flapping shirt, his capless head,

broken feet,

in his kneebones scraping the frozen stones

of the street. It is here

in the scraps

of straw he lays beneath her head

to pillow her dreams

and there

in his blistered hands clenched to jutting ribs,

in his bowed head

as he grieves

alongside the quickening streams of passing feet

far from their stolen fields on the lands

of Gurranenatuoha,

his little girl now freed. It is here: his last companion,

constant, unyielding as his defeat.

It is here

in his bereft grip, this consuming

ocras

that never leaves.