p.s.

Mary Whittemore

It must be so difficult—
enacting small gestures to an audience
of none.

That window of yours, you think,
is not for looking out, but in.
Still, streetlights bleed orange in fog.
The whisk of cars on slick streets lasts
as long as it takes you to place
two parties against each other
in your mind. These parts of your life
collide, you in between what you didn't know then
and what you do now, leaving you
gleaming and cleansed.
Just to make sure,
we smudge the house, plant a dirty smell
of sage, and wait.

Meanwhile,
a crowd steps away from the ledge inside your mind.
A blackbird alights from its post, and you say:
when you see this, know what you are thinking because it will be true.

You relish in preparing your own demise.
There is no audience for your unmaking, save
the eulogy inside your mind.

But in the omen it is an owl, not this. You are already
consoling yourself for the imprint of this moment, the harsh
ceremony you'll pit against another time
the ruin you'll forget to unbuild.

© 2001 by Mary Whittemore

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