Res Obscura
Yesterday’s snow, and this morning’s
window. These same days start with
black tea, burnt toast, vitamins. Thick
mittens, snow scraped off the front
stoop with the steel toe of my boot.
Later, a wool sweater for my shoulders,
more tea, another slow afternoon; then
cold wind groaning all night long.
Walls sag into each other as the window
watches, waits. Frosted. The glass
is astute and controlled, a doubled
surveillance: a study of landscapes
and still life exposed. Making angles
or shadows, light strikes the pane
and splits, inverted then reversed,
just like the eyes make sight.
The interpretive tasks are all my own –
I have this whole place to myself.
And now that I’ve whittled my body
down to the bone, and carved
this little bone into a flute held
open to the wind, grief widens into
one last staring eye, gaping mouth.
The wind, too, is open mouths,
another gagged sound heard again
and over again, as though someone
is trying to tell me my name. Or this
is only my imagination, alone
with its own wildness. Meanwhile, you
are the haunt of this place.
And as I pace this cage of freedom,
even these neglected houseplants
reach toward mourning. This is the same
as waiting, and this waiting
is the same.
