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Sport 17: Spring 1996
Glass Sonnet
Glass Sonnet
She has lost track and she is his memory.
Everything is half and half, light, dark,
even the individual blades of grass
with their sharp crease. Thumbs locked,
fingers splayed, she plays a hawk's ragged
wings on the wall. She slips the shadow
of the Taizé candle. There is no holding
her. Hunched, rangy, grey maned,
she has made us put her in this small room.
Look at the hills, we say, look at the sky,
the clouds pouring over Flagstaff. But the view
is new and tedious. The city an egg carton.
A tiger has entered through a tiny wound
in her leg. There are chickens to slaughter.