Poems by Pauline Knaeble Williams
I stopped writing after you left me.
Dropped all pretense of prophet,
The clouded bottles of fine and coarse powders;
crushed, under the weight of where your heel
used to step.
I loosened the love knot from my hair.
Snatched from its chain
the charm I once wore for you.
All the same, the remedy for your return
draws a taste from my tongue
and the discarded spells I stitched together
blow open, at the strangest hour.
Not Since Eve
I became a writer
soon after the women arrived
They came in while I slept
and left before dawn
They came dressed in colors
that rose to the ceiling
They spoke softly and quickly
in languages I could not understand
But I knew why they had come
Their grief was apparent
the smell of rain in their hair
and as we began to cry
they smoothed the tears into our cheeks
so that when I awoke
most of them had already gone
and those who remained set their jaw
like they meant it
and I was told
that not since Eve
had anyone been through this