BARBARA ALLEN
It was how she swelled the sail of my throat
and led me seawards; how I pulled back taut
against the boom to save my own distinction.
It was her lovely nets and shining hooks,
the eyes that dragged my tidal mind like moons.
This bed has been the limit of my longing
since our independence ricocheted.
And tonight the bald hips of the apple boughs
will ache and the house will sink to its knees
and the windows will weep to see the clouds
age like silver stomachs under the sky.
Our poles will hold and shake and try to turn
like the two tears running to meet at my chin.
To prove our strength we planted stone on stone,
and the dam will hold, and she will not come.
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