He doesn't know it, but he is her tangled dream jungle of late night bedsheets, her goodmorning sleep language and her browneyed lullaby, her cigarette smoke promises, and her pounding black bass-tempo Monday morning -- a heartbreak laid heavy with tears.
He widows her when the weekend is over, doesn't meet her eyes when they pass between classes.
He doesn't know it, but he is her religion, and her prayers are always made on all fours.
Her church needs to go through the laundry again.