by Betsy Sholl
It all comes down to one day glowing,
one day gone,
one day haloed mother, one day
the hag, scythe in hand.
So, what throw of the dice this time,
Moon, what’s loaded in your bones?
Bright dinner plate set in the sky,
sometimes empty, sometimes full,
you shine in the cat’s eye,
the fox creeping up on the hens,
you slip under the skin of men
murdering words, their mouths
too close to the ear.
You burr in the dog’s paw,
mother of howls,
you the train’s one – eyed beam,
cameo on night’s black breast
the thief itches to snatch and pawn,
mute coin we all rub for good luck —
no water drowns you,
no branches puncture.
Rising over palace and hut,
mosquito net, bed roll in scrub brush —
what throw of the dice this time?
Eh Girl, what widens your eye as you shine
over scrap yard and mountain pass,
as you glance down through tangled limbs,
onto the shuttered windows
of this small house?