The Man With His Back To The Room
The Woman In The Window
white & weeps blue tears down her thin cheeks & in her silver hair she’s a nest of chickadees &
around her neck from a silver chain a miniature black cage
where a white cricket lives &
in her heart there’s a hole that has never been filled & in
her mouth words she will not speak but
chews them day by day until they are the color of white paste & will be her meal for that night.
The woman in the
window cannot find her way in the dark & depends on the moon & the shadows it casts
to make a path for her to come & go & in the day she is motionless in her chair of asphodel & weeds &
looks to the horizon like a pilgrim anticipating a ship or a queen her
lost love & when I see her, as I often do,
I wave & she smiles that rare smile & I see her teeth are true
& her eyes turn bright as the darkest stars.