My Poetry

By Sara Douglas 

Height

Inch by inch, a pile of oats disappearing

in the corner.

A 5x5 box of nails, clanging.

Bells in the throat.

A woman's hair must be cut

standing up.

The red seal of a letter, still warm.

 

She presses her forehead with a napkin, looks out the slit of the door into the foggy light. Hair undone, damp. She is poised. In the suitcase: a pearl comb, a plum-colored blouse, a gun folded in old meat wrappers.

 

This is how to undo a knot behind the back.

Blind-folded in an open field.

 

What exposes the buried: secrets exchanged through cupped hands, along the length of a sword held cursive to the throat. Fragments of gas lamps, shovels embracing what is left. What is left?

 

The feeling of late winter when there is no winter.