The Woman In The Window

wears white & weeps blue tears down her thin cheeks & and her
silver hair is a nest of chickadees &

around her neck from a silver chain a miniature black cage
where a white cricket lives &

in her heart there’s a hole that has never been filled & in her mouth
words she will never speak but

chews them day by day until they are the color of white paste
that will be her meal for the night.


The woman in the window cannot find her way in the dark & depends
on the moon  & the shadows it casts

to make a path for her to come & go & in the day she is motionless
in her chair of asphodel & weeds &

looks to the horizon like a queen waiting for her lost consort  & when I see her, as I often do, I wave &

she offers a rare smile & I see her teeth are strong & her eyes turn bright as the darkest stars.