a
poem by
Nancy Henry
> bio
And You Would Still Be Gone
I can't sleep nights
light cigarettes out of spite
for the wind and the dust of a thousand miles
for the aging widows in sweltering rooms
for the birds hopelessly lost in radiance.
Yes, I do remember when you were with me,
a beautiful hand
unfoldng the blue sheets, two children
sheltered in the moss-covered corners of stone,
observing the barely perceptible rotations of this
world.
South of the river
we sat dreaming the doubters' dreams;
bees saying their morning prayers over the tall grass,
candles burning on the gravestones.
If I could draw that moment back
through that last pearly slit in the night,
then, my sister, from the edge of our high window
I would see battalions of finches
on the shoulders of the reddening trees
all gone beneath the beastly rains of September
like gods fallen out of the sky.
