Light that pulls itself against the leaning pine,
aligns itself with uninvited air.
My broken toe, my torn shirt,
my asymmetrical heartstrands twisting awry.
The porch stairs drawn up in sorrow,
stained by the invisible fingers of remorse.
Guardians of paths untaken, prayers against air,
and the ache of forgotten years.
Wind bends before the scent of geraniums
and the yeast of unmade bread.
The dreams that were never there, the pennies
never spent, the pockets empty of surprise.
A ferret tunnels through the door, seeking
sanctuary inside the darkest closet, trembling
like a planet fallen out of orbit.
My footfalls in the unswept dust,
my hair caught in parentheses,
my lust for watches that run backwards.
Ruth Bavetta’s poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod, North American Review, Slant, Nerve Cowboy, Atlanta Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretence, prejudice, and sauerkraut.