As promised, here is another poem in the 'lost' UMBRA sequence (only 4 poems still exist out of about 40, due to computers that died and hard copies that disappeared). See previous blog entry below for details/explanations of the UMBRA sequence and reasons why I'm posting them here.
UMBRA IS A SHADOW
in the dry wrack of the house, listless
under the crooked arch
of the stairway, listening for weather.
Her blood plummets.
Her scalp drags.
Her fingers stiffen, pointing south.
The dark hole of her mouth rolls shut,
an oubliette.
Where is the line,
the arrow-head, the fierce unlocking magnet gone?
His absence hurts her,
takes away all purpose like the cracked vase
on the table, draining its blue veins
to a dark puddle of light on the hall floor.
What could she do, where go,
how to atone, retrieve the scattered atoms of her self?
The dark recedes.
The windows beat their pulsing heads
against the sun.
His body hangs against the glass.
She hears his mute key speak into the lock,
oracular, indelible.
The house shifts like mercury
beneath the pressing tide.
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