Silver

			It is winter and that burns slowly
				-Cole Swensen, "January"

lying on the bed
watching the moon rising
through the blinds in the dark of this
room I first moved into in summer
it feels for a moment
like July
but here on my left side
lying here in my blue sweater
cold in my blue sweater
that cannot be

dusk came
though I hardly noticed
It was clothed in wood smoke
there were shadows on the front stoop
there was mail disappearing
into the dark of the dining room table
then it was night too fast
and the moon was rising
you could see her
shining up from under the lip of the hill

nothing accomplished
no closer to the truth
look at the white of your own fingers
against the blue

you are holding onto yourself
see this
see how you do it
see how the wing of the cupped hand
curls around the blue barrel of your sweater
beneath which your heart beats

sing something
if only to the air that holds you.
There must have been a welcoming song.
Maybe the Lakota or the Iroquois
when she rose above their lodges
gathered in their doorways
felt her silver on their skins
and sang

© Peter Harris-Kunz, 1996

Poems by Peter Harris-Kunz

The Albany Poetry Workshop