the dank elixir, which once dribbled from her like lava flow, has dulled to a crust in the shape of beetles between her thighs. now her hands are grim and vigilant hounds.

each night the evening fog lifts the window and invites the beetles to trickle down the ledge and bury themselves in the ferns below.

in their sleep the hounds are pups.

they do not anticipate calamity but lie vulnerable on either side of her like enchanted gargoyles.

when the most alert hound sighs, relieving himself of any residual caution, the beetles pulse toward the fog and bury themselves in its fathoms.

well before twilight the beetles re-emerge and return to their post, like tiny emerald soldiers.

while she rests, the beetles click and gestate. and when she wakes, though the hounds lay peacefully beside her, she carries the vague memory of invasion.