by Anne Caston
a watchtower of her loft.
Two mornings hence, his ironed shirt
slipped its hanger; the hallway mirror shivered.
Last night, in Baghdad, someone struck
a match -- to light a lantern or a fuse?
And now the darkness that makes visible
the stars bares its claws at her.
She dreams tonight they find him, fallen
in a field, days-dead, a sparrow nested in his beard.
Yesterday's ghost still moves at will
through the ruined rooms of the house,
rifling her papers, fingering her lingerie,
singing in the kitchen like a hot kettle.
~
Copyright © 2006 - Anne Caston
Published: 11/2/06 · Author's Page · Next Poem