I had thought for many years
that they were birds.
That she gathered sticks
for firewood, carried like long poles
across the center of her body.
That she dressed in black
habitually. Passing other stacks
of sticks or palm debris, the sheaves
of something less than wood
but more than leaf. That she carried
these long sticks through silent streets, white
stucco walls. But it was a cemetery.
And the monuments, as large as houses.
And the dress, for mourning.
And not streets were vacant,
but the rows. And not birds,
not birds …
Sarah Maclay is the author of three poetry collections–Music for the Black Room, Whore, and The White Bride (all, University of Tampa Press), and three chapbooks. Her poetry and critical prose has appeared in American Poetry Review, FIELD, Ploughshares, The Best American Erotic Poems: From 1800 to the Present, The Writer’s Chronicle, VerseDaily, Poetry International and elsewhere. She teaches creative writing and literature at Loyola Marymount University.
*Photo courtesy of Ctd 2005.