No one comes. House lights burn
in the empty street, white oaks
shudder in all these silent yards.
She stands in October moonlight,
leaves swirling at her feet, opens
her eyes to another gravity’s
magic pull. How strange to feel
that pale yellow bath on her cheeks
and painted smile. She drinks
the darkness as an owl floats
by, its alien face round as another
moon dotted with black
stars, rush of wings and from
somewhere breath and a beating heart.
Maybe you’ll meet her some night
on the moonbeam road, when
careless dreams push you toward
the margins of a tired life. Feel
your own swimming arms pull
a body through surging sky.
Don’t fail to greet her with your
eyes at least, or if your tongue
unfreezes, speak to her in the unlocked
language of your weightless blood.
She might take your hand
then, lead you home to secret
pools where wolves lap
at secrets with their scarlet tongues.
Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has received several Pushcart nominations and his chapbook, Thirty-six Crows, was recently published by erbacce press.