"Visitor"
Lucinda comes with wine and absolutes,
arms filled with reasons I cannot conquer.
Were I the sort to lean toward suspicion
I might consider her an agent sent to sort
me out. But I am a believer in fate, a follower
of bent twigs and riverbends. I hear the moon
sometimes as it sighs across the sky. Surely
that means something. I let her in, open
the wine, kindle a fire and watch her slash
of mouth come for me, a pair of red blades
to prune my wanderings. She speaks in tones
that disassemble before they reach my ears
and all I hear is flatware spilled on slate.
I am tempted to nibble the thin rim of my glass
as a garnish for her prattle. Snow dashes
against the windows and I allow myself
the horrid thought of her trapped here,
a crisp wasp in a jar. The spirits run dry
and I bundle her off, scooted and swathed,
nearly shoved, but not. I am a poor friend
who heeds nothing, but watchwords divined
in the wren’s anxious tracks or faded whorls
of sapphire ink. Sometimes I do not answer
the door for fear I might escape.
© 2008 Dale McLain
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