Winter
The wife re-enters
her life, a country
vaguely familiar,
the lily on the pale plates,
she remembers,
the spider web above
the hearth. She makes
smiles for the family
next door. She considers
selling her smiles. She made
a cloak for winter. It's
the color of his eyes;
it holds her still as
she stands in the yard
the night the moon
is full again. She thinks
it's a long florescent tube
she could walk through,
a light so bright she
would see her bones.
She sees that winter is
a graveyard. Her feet make
tick, tick on the frost
as she surveys the small graves.
Dalias, Poppy,
Phlox, rest in peace.
Tulips, Scilla,
peace. Like
fetuses, she thinks,
like beautiful girl children,
their flowery dresses
desiccated. This is why
resurrection was invented,
she thinks. Think
what has been said
of the moon: fingernail,
disc, cheese, blue, man in the,
face, cup, luminous, goddess,
a woman's gravity.
Gravity, she sings, then grave.
Crave.
Craven. Cave, she sings.
No one has called the moon a cave.
Cave.
The moon is the cave
of the body. She turns,
her velvet boots walk her
to the door. Tick, tick.
She
should remember her gloves.
Entering, she glances back
briefly as she mounts
the stairs, finding the moon
in the center of her
high kitchen window.
Lover, she thinks, cold, far
away, florescent.
Her only one.
JCWatson