Jane Wong
I
A history slips
through these elms,
presses our mouths
together like books.
In October,
you showed me hoof
marks,
cupped your ears and
listened for gulls.
We are too far off, I
told you
you who never listen
II
Wells deep and full of
copper draw winter closer still.
III
You fell off your
bicycle –
mouth of blood and
rot.
Mothers ran, swore low
and
kicked all the rust
beetles in the road.
IV
A border of blue runs
from my house to yours. It trails
across the gray grass, the stitched molding, the crack in the door. It enfolds, unravels carpet, romances the
cat. We follow it with our eyes closed, arms outstretched and guarded.
V
The room smells of mop
water.
Oh turn your back, you
say
Oh turn your back
VI
Letters in the trees
cull
wild irises and pickle
weeds.
I am reading against
the bark.
VII
In the kitchen, a
curtain is drawn and trees
leave with the east
wind.
When
the fog comes,
when the town closes its shutters,
spider root sticks to
my bowl.
VIII
Forty-paces.
Slowness pulls
at my upturned throat,
the ground shifting
urgently
toward the gulls.
I am much too far from
the clearing,
much too far from this
place of east winds.
IX
In the clearing,
deer move from the
thistle,
curiously pressing
their noses
against your boots.