It is dangerous, like standing by a window 
to watch lightning, but I sometimes let myself imagine
him thundering through the door, all storm,
blood-pink sweat steaming from his shoulders,
over which he carries an offering, a beast
killed, not as an answer to prayer, but to need. 
Some nights the only evidence of the sun
is the moon swelling with echoes of its light. 
We are hungry, & he lays the animal, still warm
& quiet, on the hearth. For me, he’s done this, gone
to find, wrestled from the wilderness, hope. 
In the darkness, this dream, he calls me Princess. 
I receive him. Every limb, like the trees outside, shaking.