THE WOMAN WHO BROKE HER EYES
The woman who broke her eyes
against the nail of your door
sings protests against night.
She carries your name sewn under
skin of her empty arms,
she walks the river with a basket
Some have seen her breath, white trail of longing
where geese gather in mud.
She has lost her name in willow and sedge.
She has lost her name in the stars.
Somewhere her name must circle the earth
in an orbit of grief.
The moon offers her no home, its pallor
taints her flesh. She sheds moon flakes
on darkened grass.
She has dropped her name in the river,
watched it float through icy
swells. The woman who broke her eyes
against the nail of your door will not call herself
fury, nursemaid of lies.
She will not call herself snow
or sky or cloud. When wind rises in winterís bitter
night, she will not call herself mother or warmth
or even wild mistress of raven hair and nails.
Steve Klepetar teaches at St. Cloud State University.