Of Her Heart

From the basement, she examines
her wounds; an old shoe, damp
unread books, the odor of memory
clings to her ribs. She's forgotten

if the moon always hung from
a cord, swings back and forth
when feet upstairs bang
on the boards, or if thunder

leaves cracks in the ceiling,
walls of her heart. She prepares
a letter to her lover, on a bed
she traces with two fingers

words about darkness, heavy
and stilled. Notes of a girl
whose eyes fell out dreaming,
of bones shaken, yet gleaming

swimming through night
like an empty shell; a space
she's saved for believing
surprisingly filled.

The Door

Sound of the door
closing, dividing
two spaces-

what is outside,
living, what is inside
deciding

which prayer
to recite
for the dead.

From heaven,
a fireline splits
what is clean

and forgiving
from the worried,
forgotten

describing
the difference
between skyand air.

We must survive
to the end
of surviving

and there,

in this intimate
room, this sanctioned
religion of building

a gate or a fjord,
despite our long
held resistance-

with violence
breaks open
our doors.

HourGlass

My time is called
borrowed. When

the children play
with sticks and rocks

and the sound of
their voices move

through evening like
glass through honey-

my time is sweetened.

The accurate shine
of light as it falls

in columns not unlike
a castle, the hours

when air becomes
ghostly, glowing buildings

becomes a sure time
to kneel, to pray.

How much time
does heart pump

through its veins? What
sand-filled hourglass

thins when turned
again, then again

and again- the endless
sifting down.

Mother Land

Her body is a cave,
the shape of a nation.

In all the dark spaces,
she has many wombs,

many children. When
they wander out of

her mouth and return
she recognizes them

by the the light
on their skin, like

the stars she fed
them, like snow

she taught them how
to glisten in a storm.

If not for heaven,
mother, why would we

ever leave you?