by Luisa Villani
I hang the window inside out
like a shirt drying in the breeze
and the arms that are missing come to me
Yes, it's a song, one I don't quite comprehend
although I do understand the laundry
White ash and rainwater, a method
my aunt taught me, but I'll never know
how she learned it in Brooklyn. Her mind
has gone to seed, blown by a stroke,
and that dandelion puff called memory
has flown far from her eyes, some things remain
Procedures Methods if you burn
a fire all day, feeding it snapped
branches and newspaper --
the faces pressed against the print
fading into flames - you end up
with a barrel of white ash. If
you take that same barrel and fill it
with rain, let it sit for a day,
you will have water
that can bring brightness to anything.
If you take that water
and in it soak your husband's shirts,
he'll pause at dawn when he puts one on,
its softness like a haunting afterthought.
And if he works all day in the selva,
he'll divine his way home
in shirt sleeves aglow with torchlight.
Robin's Nest 