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Under a burning sky,
leaning into the last wind of hope,
you come to me, palms open.
You ask about late night appeals
& forgiveness in this half-
stroke of a devil's midnight.

But can a woman forgive the man
who killed her?

I ask you this question,
watch the size of your nose 
as you stutter.

You moved into a new light while I slept,
not knowing the stars had fallen
or the moon had slipped on its axis
until I awoke, my hand groping 
an empty pillow, your scent still thick
in the mourning air.


Pris Campbell
2007



Art: to be added



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