[Rilke's sad child]

Each day was no different.

The matter came to light;


pain slipped down the body,

and in the taut brilliance


of the sun, sadness

crawled out of my head,


small and yellow. She didn't

make a sound, but stared ahead,


stock-still, especially pretty,

aware that I was watching her.


She was just a child. I made

to graze my fingers over


her thigh, tense muscle

hugging the shallow curve


of hip. She was statue-hard,

stupendous. She asked me why


the pond's ghost held the day

so stoically, looking out the


window, and felt my forehead.

I shook her out of my hair.


A woman came to retrieve her.

They left a lack of space


inside me, an eye opening like

a wheel peeling off the earth.