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it wasn’t so dark. yes. it wasn’t light enough that you could see
the road. it was light, but not so very light
and then i heard the light of day crackling
under the coffee-pot
and down the road came a woman with a basket on her head
or maybe a swirl of falling snow coming from her lantern
bright against the dark bulk of the brush
like small girls appearing in their undershirts
(girls accepting sticks of gum on their tongues
jam and bur scratches on the backs of their hands)
her face framed by her dark tendrils and bangs and her eyes
ringed with dark circles
eyes that flick cigarette ashes into laps, eyes that claim she grew
up in a circus tent, that her mother was a contortionist who died
during a trapeze act. blinded by the moon beating up
from the sand, she saw wing shadows thickening on the ground
she made a noose of her long black hair and snared
the bright lizards of moonlight
a big lumping woman, she passed and stared into the glass of my
shack, at her body with its muscular thighs, its small compact
breasts, and its slender flanks of an athlete. she moved this body
forward as if to see it better, moved it into the light
until it illuminated the upper half of her face. she rubbed her chin
with her knuckles. my reflection darkly surrounded
and enveloped her.
i could remember towns, houses, places, other people
but have managed to suppress myself out of my memories.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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