The window enters Amanda through her eyes,
the same window that changes the leaves
each day, where finches flit like thoughts
tousling her hair, rustling in the eaves
of her. This may involve a new grammar:
the vertigo at the top of the stairs lolls
in her calves; hello and farewell stammer
on her tongue; and the urge to walk out
of the room, the life, itches at her heels
like wing buds. You want to enter the thoughts
and rooms of her now like the flexions
of leaf light at the glass, the rising notes
of questions. But she’s opaque as a dress
of quicksilver and will not let you look in.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 1.
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