WHEN SHE LEFT
by Kevin McAuley
She wore a necklace of tiny suns. They
trailed
Yellow smoke, as she ran. He was running
after
Her, trying to avoid the colored hands
that
Grabbed at his ankles from out of the
thick, low mist.
Behind him, the past was swallowing his
footsteps.
She stood in her death robe, a basket of
snakes
In her arms, a mask carved in bone on
her hip.
Her nails were painted with blood and
fingers were
Tangled in her hair. When he asked her
not to go,
She turned her face to the north, where
already
Snowclouds were gathering like armies,
and the dusk
Crouched low, tensed and ready to leap.
Poem copyright
© 1994 Kevin McAuley.
Cover
| Masthead | Editorial and
Letters
Previous
Page | Next Page