Three knocks on the front door;
no one there.
Three knocks on the back door;
where, where
are you? Why are you here?
The midnight clock
ticks new day, new year
while your knocking
warns me someone is giving in,
passing through;
the membrane is thin.
Then I knew.
Your spectral wail was muted
during days of her decline
when frail bones, withered lungs were lifted
from her prison-bed by spirit songs
her father’s ancient people sang.
A soaring soul was not enough,
it seems, to keep your call at bay.
You draw her near and she succumbs.
