Picking through the Rubble at Midnight
By Ann Walters

Wave, half-moon, wave me home.
My hair has a curl that never goes.

The owl on her limb swallows words
and puffs her soft round face like a girl

blushing prettily at a chance remark.
Stars, you may say something too,

about the way photographs often lie
or the color of forgiveness. Wind and rain

have spoiled my books, my lovers’ letters,
the bowl of tangerines like sunlight

on the kitchen table. Splinters in my eyes
make it impossible to blink

against the brightness. Moon, you may
blink for me, through broken trees,

the idle speculation of sirens, the last
polite words from a distant radio

saying this is not a test.
I pick up a comb and straighten my hair.

Ann Walters lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two daughters. Her poems have been published in Poet Lore, Poetry International, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Cider Press Review, Literary Mama, and many other journals. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

© 2008 prickofthespindle.com