You are here
Look what I've done to you, is what
she said he told her, Your marriage,
your children, your friends. No wonder
I don't want you, is what she said he said,
Now turn off the light, it's late. Her moon
blinding with its one huge eye cuts in as
if its core is a crater, as if that’s where
she’s caught, he's refracted himself away.
In her dream she drops him a leafrope
down a dead volcano and he climbs
out to her. In the night his skin,
in the night his hair. Alarm's set
for early, he says. She hides all day
under steep sun, lit yet still lost.
A halving. A part of a heart. Later
she gives up, goes down in and hopes
her children will be flatlanders who
won’t forget the feel of their feet in
the fields, will forgive her while she is
away. It’s his turn to lower the vine.
This moon has passed its prime.
Laurinda Lind lives in New York’s North Country. Some publications/ acceptances are in Blue Earth Review, Midwest Quarterly, New American Writing, Paterson Literary Review, and Spillway; also anthologies Visiting Bob: Poems Inspired by the Life and Work of Bob Dylan (New Rivers Press) and AFTERMATH: Explorations of Loss and Grief (Radix Media).