She, the one you call sister
Cento for Adrienne Rich
from first lines of poems in eight books
Wear the weight of equinotial evening,
autumn torture the old signs
a cracked wall in the garden,
alll night eating the heart out.
Underneath my lid another eye has opened.
She is the one you call sister.
Night life. Letters, journals, bourbon,
the stars will come out over and over—
a clear night if the mind were clear,
you there with your gazing eyes,
a dark woman, head bent, listening for something
at the oak table under the ceiling fan.
This woman the heart of the matter,
little as I knew you I know you.
The I you know isn’t me you said.
It’s not new this condition, just for awhile.