Sun falling beyond the western ridge.
Gilding the few clouds in gold,
tinged in dusty mauve and lavender.
Trying to release it all
in a few stolen moments on the porch
while the shrimp bubble in the creole sauce
and the bread warms.
Exposed on the south and west by old rattlely windows,
the porch gives the twilight permission
to sit for a few moments in the old rocking chair
as the first bats sweep across the darkling sky.
I walk in and stir the rice.
I wash my face
and modulate my voice, removing the weariness and panic.
No sense in letting on.
I am tied to this life.
Chosen or saddled,
it is my path.
The gate to my freedom only opened by her death.
Fairness has nothing to do with it.