The room. The white piano. <br />The stars gone slack. <br />The unmistakable rising up <br />to meet her. In heels and <br />a dark suit. A green light. A wing. <br />An accomplice. Silence and <br />more. Not silence. The mandolin still <br />trembling, still holding its moan. <br />Scar of light on the page. The blade <br />of an old story. The hand, the voice, <br />the deep pocket. Whatever stars are left. <br />The map, the spit and polish. <br />The sky like a great pond. <br />The drift. The notion. <br />The wine with its warm hide. <br />The lavish hand grenade. The stars and more. <br />The cloud, its soft harness. <br />The well. The wound. The warning. <br /> <br />From the chapbook Ambush (Main Street Rag Publishers,2004)<br /><br />Silvia Curbelo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ambush-2/
