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An overturned pot of hot water
the cold metal bars of a bed
a red towel over my head
my elbow burns with tongues of fire
the men are coming
they are sharpening their knives
mother cries
an overturned pot of hot water
the drive to a hospital
in another town
white polka dots on a pink nightgown
a red towel over my head
the men are sharpening their knives
on the edge of the whirlpool tub
mother cries
an overturned pot of hot water
a long drive to the hospital
in another town
a yellow and brown afghan
wrapped around my arm
the cold bars of a metal bed
a red towel over my head
my mother is not here
I am dead
my elbow burns with
tongues of fire
I am dead in a cold
metal bed
where is my mother?
The men are coming again.
Their knives are sharp.
We walk a path of moonlight in the snow.
You say my hair is full of stars
which would explain why
there are no stars in the sky.
The sky is bare, but the city
pulses with light
and I am riding the bus
alone, toward home.
No, we are walking
and the lake
is a dark mirror of ice.
A tree leans
at the edge of the park,
leans alone, longing.
I would do a dance for you,
naked in the moonlight,
stones standing in a circle around me,
breathing out fog.
But the moon is not
a goddess. A ritual. Love.
And the tree is not
a spirit. An anchor. A prayer.
The moon is just a moon,
the tree, just a tree.
There are no mysterious places here.
Just the road
and a bus on the road,
the lights at the windows,
the shrinking stars.