One Hundred Years of Solitude

herself sincerely with the
astuteness of a wise woman,
weaseling her slippery,
flexible, and fragrant weasels
body as she tried to knee him
in the kidneys and scorpion
his face with her nails, but
without either of them giving
a gasp that might not have
been taken for that breathing
of a person watching the
meager April sunset through
the open window. It was a
fierce fight, a battle to the