Southern Pacific Review Editorial Services

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

For a Woman in Winter

by
Rusty Russell

Her black hair was the only emotion
I could not name
under a sky the dream of salt.
Light slowed to a trickle
where the only warmth was behind her eyes
like a prisoner who does not blame
her jailors. Then she laughed
and the sun remembered itself -
the father of lightning,
husband of the water alive in the fountain.
But laughter stops or
you pour from yourself too quickly.
She fell silent and the season changed back
to bare knives and windowspoor as the wood of their frames.

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