I caught her beneath her father's bulk,
his breathing heavy in the dark.

                                             He gives me sweets,

the young girl said,
her eyes watching the ground.
She could not have seen
twelve summers.

                                             Touching me
                                             brings him youth,
                                             he says.
                                             And this way I
                                             can give him thanks.

I let my voice
caress her skin.
You could give him
what he truly wants.

                                             My tongue.

Or the sweetness
of youth
beating through
his veins.

                                             Yes.
                                             I think—
                                             he likes my little sister more.

I handed her my silver knife
with its handle carved of dragon bone
and prepared the fire of green cut wood,
filling a cauldron with verdant herbs.
A young ram leapt from the copper depths.
She did all the cutting. We watched
the water boil and steam, and breathed
the heavy vapors, smiling
at the fresh scent of herbs, of youth.