"For Lila who was left behind"
I wait, always on the stoop, heart
like a votive behind my lantern ribs.
I understand, by five, that I warrant
disregard. At seven I am notable
for my stoic stance. In the cloak closet
whispers slither through fringed scarves
and slickers like a clutch of asps.
I master art and silence in fifth grade,
become as pale as December’s moon.
I am that girl whose mother bows away
from her, whose father is a slash
of red across the snow. Better to forget
myself, to lie as still as moss beneath
the dancers’ heels. By twenty I am keen,
a honed blade sheathed in lace. I give
myself a voice of burs and thistles.
I chip my teeth on pearls as decades
slip between my fingers. Lately I carve
solitary figures from borrowed light,
house them in temples of balsa wood
with bright stars that peal like silver bells
hung for my delight. I borrow their song
and not a single soul suspects I am the same
quiet one who waits to be remembered
upon the step, still there as darkness falls.
© 2009 Dale McLain
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