If it be dream
let him wrap her in clouds,

let her call
his name from the next room.

If lust
let him burn the house down,

and she
bury a knife in his heart.

But if it be love
let him bring scorched breadfruit
and kneel at the water’s edge;

let her rise 
in foam, wrenched from the broken 
mouth of horror like a pearl.

Taken from the collection In the Night Speaking with permission by the author