Monday, March 21, 2005


by Zinta Aistars

I remember children, and being one—
world in my mind larger than sky.
Pain was an echo in someone else’s woods.
The heart was a blood red muscle,
shape pointed with rounded ears
and made of thick rubber.
Shot through with steel.
I was forever. I was
heroine of my own bright tales,
meek wolves for pets, blunted teeth,
white and black unmarred,
summer songs in tune and sung
from the high branches of an oak tree,
bare legs swinging through leaves.

To have lost her:
the child, the heart, the wolf, the song, the oak tree
drives an older woman mad.

Watching snow fall.
Each flake a frozen wisp
of nothing,
yet together
a cold, white drift.

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