A black mare, the wind.
Black stones strike the windows, rain
-water rushing inside stone walls,
hail stoning the walls of this
heart I dream. I dream
the children were never born
so they cannot die when maybe
it was I who never lived
because I couldn’t keep them
alive. The stars buried in the wells.
The woods spread below the windows
at which I sit, alone. Dark as night.
The distance between land & light is less
than a mile. I might make it through
& never be sane. I dream my children
ate their hair in the womb, smelled of old pennies,
bound the wind to their bones like poles
to the power lines. In every age, a blur
of trees through the blinds.
But the walls have teeth, like the world.
Each moment I’ve spent outside, a museum.
Of lies, the wind testifies. A child
dies. The stars are alive. The woods
die. The wound is a lie. A rumor dies.
The words are alive. The words,
a world. The world, a mine.
The windows, black as diamonds.