Thursday, March 24, 2005

Not Tonight

What else can he do?
There is no long box, no coffin,
so he builds one out of silence
and darkness
and he leaves me there unrescued
for days, sometimes
weeks. There are windows -
I watch the breezy willow
flip pussy coins along its knuckles
I watch the magnolia bloom its moon balls.
When he returns I close the slats,
hush the baby, sit on my hands.
His presence fills the foyer like a countdown.
I hear his unwashed breathing
as he bends to his boots.
Tonight he doesn't speak.
It's my fault. In the garden evening blows
down and down the long silver throat
of our Grosbeak chimes.


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