Foreboding


i got
blindsided today.
it was the first time i'd seen the moon in a while,
and you know how those days can be.
alone,
in my bed,
it was as real and as silent as the moment when
swirled sugar turns clear in your tea:
as tragic as a pair of trim ankles,
crossed.
damp,
like a petal, there was

no birth fluid gush,
no shroud in the shadows,

no blanket or delicate warm and wet warning;
none of that,
no hors d'oeuvre.
just
my hand on the lamp
and the stale bread crumb fear,
the lonely
and knowledge-soft whisper and promise
of parting.

Copyright 1995 by Terra Elan McVoy -- from the table beneath the hand