blackbird online journal spring 2002 vol.1 no. 1



Widow's Walk

The whole of it a flat dead lung.
Now the howling has stopped
and the gulls squawk the garbage heap.

These lace gloves were given me as we walked
the orchard in Virginia and he kissed me.
His beard was softer than father’s.

I wore my mother’s white dress
and bees ran the plum blossoms.
They were smiling as they cried.

But then the whole of the sea.
From the roof box the big ship
was a toy from the barrens.

Now the yawling over keel becomes my sleep:
How the boat lopes over the canyons
and dark beasts flipper the undertow.

And how we float away, dark prince.
You are not the sea. And I am not
the lace sifting over your bones.  

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