By David Allard
Dry-eyed when her mother
was laid to rest
in the arms of greasy mud,
walled within an invisible tower,
she moved with grace,
hips swaying, stupefied,
a swan through the mire.
She had seen
red eyes, streams, streaks on others’ cheeks, oh yes:
on others.
And herself? she felt she was
the last mote of oxygen
in a light bulb.
Driving through the early autumn night,
fireworks burst above,
a gaudy feast of light and sound
A black shape lunged from the sheened pavement –
she half-glimpsed
four legs, a tail,
felt a thud against the front of the car.
Dry-eyed she drove on, not stopping
to see if it was an animal,
or a spirit made flesh.
Later, she woke sobbing,
trembling in the scuba darkness,
ashamed and scared that
she could not remember
her first lover’s face