a woman’s crying
the redness of it
tears for something torn
a favorite dress
a picture of an old love
a memory
a
shell
casing
tumbling
through
thick air
a dog dead on
her front lawn
behind her
footsteps
scuttling leaves
backs raised
ready to pounce
everything is
dangerous tonight
sound hurts
All these
moons I’ve
painted that
bring no light–
the sun,
the stars,
the sky,
they can
not see
that I am
standing still.
These things
I dream are
dreamed for
someone else–
the bitter fruit,
the barren tree,
the songless bird
are all for me.
I wear them well
around my neck
until I cannot breathe–
I will not stay to
see them leave.
Who reads this
poem cannot
know me–
I didn’t bury
birds they
buried me.
On fire in
the afternoon,
a woman
in a shroud
is cleaning
her own skull
of its flesh;
she has
dug herself
up and is
burning in
the bright
daylight.
Polished bone
is mirroring
back what is
left of her face.
Holes are
everywhere–
eyes,
ears,
mouth–
no one has
heard her voice
for years.
Buried,
disinterred
and buried
again;
now, she
can speak
of return–
silence,
smoke,
intimidation,
incineration,
tapping bone,
bird song,
hard stone,
conflagration–
and of the
day he came
carring a
small lyre.
the place was set
but no one came
she waited for an hour
and then she ate
pistachio and pumpkin
chestnuts and white truffles
outside the rain
the waitress was kind
and left her to her pain
the other diners
pretended she
was not alone
and smiled at
the lonely woman
sitting by herself
French restaurants in fall
the opera crowd
with season tickets
the sommelier
the taste of taro on her tongue
the bitter root of love denied
coffee and a sweet dessert
she paid the price
outside the rain
they picked me
up and put me
down and told
me I’d be found
the light ahead
was not for me
the sky the moon the stars
they could not see
that I was standing still
I ran and ran and ran in place
to chase them down–these
things I dreamed were
dreamed for someone else
the bitter fruit
the barren tree
the songless bird
were all for me
I wore them well
these dark things
around my neck
until I couldn’t breathe
I will not stay
to see them leave
who reads these
poems cannot
know me I
didn’t bury birds
they buried me
rlmcdermott 