Change in the Weather
A collapsing woman holes up in the charmed moon of her skin garden. Desperate
breath cupboards the fruit.
What did the meadow have in mind?
To have been awakened by a dream, of course.
This is your wound for darkness.
A wolf whistle echoes the slipback and dodge of another tongue trek, the sound all
over her like honey.
The child’s hand reaching into my mouth and the mother’s glassy whistle, digging
for chains under slow thick replies.
A little village of small round rodents collapsed beneath the owl’s roost. Leaf-meal
covers the victims’ bones, fate’s leather lungs curing in the damp attic of fallen leaves.
I loved her carefully like the tidy arrangement of her mother’s peaches neatly on
the cellar shelf. I can type ninety words a minute and grovel profusely. I apologize for
acts of nature.
Her runaway coats celebrated a family of unhinged pilgrims. She labeled obvious
contents “too obvious.” She abandoned another lover before me saying he smelled like
“Lonely necktie,” she said once, wanting to pet me.
No more emotional coyotes now in her burgeoning neighborhoods. A finicky little
ornamental cacophony swimming along the responsibility channel with too many
moonstruck clairvoyants nominating stars.
When our teeth fall out, we continue growing, beautifully, ignoring each other with
Streak of blood pierces cloth of sky. It means we can awaken now and greet the
The moon is waning. Dear, innocent moon.
I rely on my pilgrims to collect the accidents.
And that was how the only storm ended, a lifetime later, with the weather taking
that feeling of “air” out of the air.
There remained something in the diminished air that wasn’t me. I let it stay, which included it in my disappearance.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.