from A Litany of Other
III.
That doppelganger turning over in her sleep,
spying the silver—shaped like wolf, like moonlight,
that pajama-clad nightshade woman who pads slipperless
to the window yawning into another reality,
climbs through and doesn’t look back,
that sweet hungry wry fearless beauty
who rows through the dark on Vermilion Lake
could never be my morning-breath-mouthwash self,
except for the one night I tumbled through gardens
weaving down echoing alleys in summer sandals,
carrots spilling out my every crevice.
That girl was neither scarecrow nor common garden thief,
but dark and hungry nymph, a minor god of indiscretion.
I’ve loved her when I was sure no one was watching—
me spiraling through time on trains in foreign cities,
with her face just outside the smeared window glass.
When you slide down the slope of another body
who can decipher the warmer half?
Yahara Prairie Lights 