Even In Hell Our Shadows Would Be Eloquent
by Anne Caston

Three nights ago, the horned owl made
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