What
seemed a mystery was
in
fact a choice. Insert bird for sorrow.
What
seemed a memory was in fact
a
dividing line. Insert bird for wind.
Insert
wind for departure when everyone is
standing
still. Insert three mountains
burning
and in three valleys a signal seer
seeing
a distant light and a signal bearer
sprinting
to a far-off bell. What seemed
a
promise was in fact a sigh.
What
seemed a hot wind, a not quite enough,
a
forgive me, it has flown away, is in fact.
In
the meantime we paint the floors
red.
We stroke the sound of certain names
into
a fine floss that drifts across our teeth.
We
stay in the room we share and listen
all
night to what drifts through the window—
dog
growl, owl call, a fleet of mosquitoes
setting
sail, and down the road,
the
swish of tomorrow’s donkey-threshed grain.
Lisa
Olstein, 2006
