Woman in Fog
If only she could, she would give her
heart to her husband, womb to her daughter,
arms to her son. But her body lies on the floor
awaiting rejuvenation, still breathing, broken.
What to do on the days when tears drop
into her soup? It’s ok to do nothing, she thinks,
just simple tasks like laundry.
She picks up a book of poems instead, reads
“trees lose parts of themselves inside
a circle of fog” *
She’s in a thick fog, has shed her leaves,
absorbed moisture till she has water on the
brain, disoriented by the shift that wakes
her at night, puts other parts of her to sleep,
brought to her knees in a wave of heat and
tears, unable to exchange the chief’s hat
for the sombrero.
Her feet feel heavy, her mind dull.
She tells herself, it is only temporary,
lie fallow, compost.
Oh the music she needs to comfort her,
and the long night she’ll travel through
until the bright dawn reclaims her.
Human, faulty, imperfect,
like the low thrum she hears in Cohen’s voice.
Claiming darkness as its source
it rings true, full of light.
*(Excerpted line from poem by Francis Ponge)
as published in For the Birds, Little Red Bird Press,