Issue 161, Spring 2002
I've lost my stately others and now there is me with neck
Erect and solemn, tightened face. Sometimes I feel they are
Peering out from behind white curtains, clutching with long
Arthritic fingers the edges of chenille, wiping their mouths
As after a succulent roast or giggling like ninnies in the
Once I turned, but it was only a wisp of my own dark hair.
I wanted them gone for so long, world devised of nothing
But me, distractionless, pure, but I was wrong. Me is empty
As wilderness, air—no monarchs, no moths.