In her dream-land the earth rumbles:
Body curled beneath her, feet
Dragged sideways like a woman - wide hips
And hands, ribs like mountains. Regan stumbles
To cross her, the soft peat
Touch of her, heavy with water, lips

Opened revealing a small sea where Cordelia's
Ships are waiting, ready to be sent over. She doesn't have
The men Goneril councils, her words
The same in every missive. She sounds like Medea,
Like this, ready to cut out her heart to spite her guts, to halve
Herself into Regan's sister and Cordelia's

Nothing (could they really kill her?) all that matters is the three of them,
The earth carved into a triangle, and Lear caught between.