" What Brought You to the Window "
Flap, flap, flap. Ah, yes. Hung out
to dry and forgotten. A man's dress shirt
bleached startlingly white writhes,
a ghost snagged on the clothesline,
arms opening and closing in the wind--goodbying,
helloing--if you get too close, it might grab
hold and not let go. You've never seen anything
so clean, so spotless--no lipstick sullies
the collar, no sweatstains shadow the pits.
Flap, flap, flap. Ah, yes. That's what woke you.
The sound of flight attempted, an angel trapped,
pumping its wings up and down in the moonlight.
You've heard that flapping before and ignored
it--the unmistakable sound of love pinned
to the night trying to undo itself, waiting
for you to come and take it down.
Not this time. You don't resist--naked,
barefoot through dewslick grass you sneak
into the neighbor's yard and try his shirt on.
Even though it doesn't fit, you wear it home.
© 2003 Laurel K. Dodge
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