I recall the steam
from your arriving locomotive
settling on the stone lions
of the British Museum.

Your first look at a new husband:
blotting his face with cold rags,
a book bag cutting the shoulders
of a stained-through shirt,
the Calcutta Times blown against his leg.

Perhaps you mistook me for a student.
Only the rain
could make you look more disappointed.

Seven years later, I imagine the bitter poem
unsheathed by your heart to trains and crows
stealing past our home.