The Crackdown

Work, bus, drugs, arrests, drink, and
struggle
and no good music anywhere.

And the young male press
says the crackdown on us is coming.

I say we’ll crack ourselves
before they ever get here
if we are not too careful.
They step over us
to avoid their mother’s backs.

Don’t walk alone
they shake their heads
they say say say
all sorts of stupid things,
but they do not say
how to get cabs with money
that stays in the rich man’s pocket.

We each walk alone
Needs must for the lazy (they say say say)
mother
because the late shift pays more.

We rest at last in rooms
behind the hardware store
through the alley
where our children sleep
in streetlight light
that shines
through thin curtains.

Copyright Kay Winter

Perpetua in Carthage

I, who found the door of death
with light forever
on the other side.

I, Perpetua in Carthage.

I, martyr to dust.

I, traveler with slaves
to beasts.

I, rejecter of the babe
my father brought
aching for my breast,

asking me:

“Do you see the space
where you will not be?”

I who was silent.

He asked me:
“What can this space be called by?”

I, who answered:
“I cannot be called anything
other than what I am.”

I, who dreamt of the serpent
I, who dreamt of my slave sisters
I, who dreamt of fighting my way
through the dark door into the light.

I, who brought Felicity singing
to the wild heifer.

I, whose collarbone caught
the executioner’s knife.

I, who caught his hand
and drew the knife
through my neck.

I, who would not be denied.

Copyright Kay Winter

The Dirt End

It has come down to
the dirt end of winter:
one last lucky penny
lost in my coat lining.

I had saved it to pay
for small
and flightless hopes.

Copyright Kay Winter

Out of the Fog

Out of the fog
the soft sound of
cottonwood leaves clicking
as the drops fall from
one leaf to another
down time
to the blurred
streetlights
by the door of the hotel
swinging open.

The smell of eggs
in chafing dishes
and the mixture
of morning colognes.

I want to go back
to the fog outside
the long walk here
and find the wet bark
and soft click of leaves.

Copyright Kay Winter

Same Language

We spoke the same language
with different words
Always the feeling of light shining through.
Words like dust motes on Sunday afternoon.
A cloud of words
waiting for
the gush and scent of rain.

Always the feeling of light shining through.

The soft sounds of his jackets in the entryway
soft as snowfall
A door opening softly inward late at night
the streetlight shining through the dark window
lingering into the gray mornings
those long winters.

The snow covering our words.

Still, always the sense of light shining through.
The headlights through the snowfall
driving home.

We spoke the same language with different words.

The smell of coffee burning,
a dog barking a yard away,
a door being shut outward too quickly,
the goodbye on the other side.

Copyright Kay Winter

The Real Show

The Real Show

The curtains fell
on the last show of the year
with a soft thump of worn velvet
against old wood.

The feathers and glitter
fell from costumes discarded
among the shattered mirrors
and paint pots.

They danced naked
into the dark streets
trailing ribbons of magic.

Past dark doorways,
past dark windows,
to the edge of the city
where the last streetlight gave way
to the wild.

And in they danced
into the greenwood
below the black branches
below the blue-black sky.

 

Copyright Kay Winter

Passage

Touch some part of me
while we wait for my soul
to be taken and crushed
like petals for scent.

I will neither enter
nor leave the room again.

Each moment
is a snowflake transforming
into a waterdrop
on a green leaf.

The border to the next land
is invisible to the naked eye
music is the only map.

I have walked away
without a word of goodbye.

You must stay on
wakeful
counting the barks of distant dogs
and the songs of the souls
needing bodies.

Copyright Kay Winter

Death Draught

And then it grew chill
And then we screamed
And then we vomited in bathrooms with the doors locked
And then they crawled out from their holes
And then they came marching
And they held up the hands of night
And they held out the claws of destruction
And they painted their crooked lies
And they called their wicked dogs
And they spoke their crooked hate
And they jeered at the fear in our bodies
And they jeered at the fear in our children
And they poured the horror into a death draught
And they told us to drink drink drink.

And then we,
We the people,
We held up the moon
We held up the sun
We held up the spinning blue earth
We held up the green branches of our garden
We held up our bodies
We held open our souls
We held strong in our voices
And we said no no no.

We said love love love.

Copyright Kay Winter

November

Let me show you
how everything disappears
into the earth
except the stars of Orion
through the black branches.

Let me show you
how pale the morning light becomes
how slow and hesitant the dawn
how swift the sunset.

Let me show you
the last chrysanthemum
casting petals in the pure air.

Copyright Kay Winter

The Long Way

I usually took the long way
starlight or clouds low
or the moon waiting to rise
behind the rag edge of black trees
already the shimmer of it
on the blue black lake.

The long way around anywhere
along the creek
the river edge
the last fenced yard
at the edge of town
tall grasses gold gray
in the light of the town’s last streetlight.

The long way there
lost, they said of me,
deliberately.
Didn’t you want to come?
How could I say yes, I did
but there was a place where
the sidewalk stopped
and became a path
that curved away
into the gray woods.

The long way home, too
Weren’t you tired? they asked of me.
How could I say yes,
but the moon was waiting to rise
behind the rag edge of black trees
and the glimmer was upon the blue black water.

Copyright Kay Winter