It is a treeless, tawny field.
She lingered there past dusk
until Jupiter began to pale in the sky.
She laid there stoic staring at the gray house
feeling like she was at the edge of an enormity
that she both yearned for and feared.
The soft wind came as a caress.
The green grass around her is soft and tame.
She was learning detail.
She learned to peal through the darkness like an orange,
noting there are many layers to things that often initially scare us.
She began to understand that sometimes what we fear also protects us.
She stopped inquiring about all possibility,
the why’s dissipated.
Anger rained inside her.
Somewhere the victim made off with the crows,
who never had a song.
She was left here, the desperation in her prayers.
Visions of his yellow eyes and his easy fists
created a form of art in her,
where she screamed and ached and drifted to sleep in the soft grass.
When she woke, she was fluent in being ghostlike
capable of haunting –
like a dangerous rock or volcano
but at any moment quite capable
of reminding the world
what happens when we get too careless
and forget about the natural consequences of indifference.