Ruby
Tara Marie Gilbert-Brever
I'm spinning my arms
like I have more
than usual, like I'm some sort
of goddess with weathervane
limbs,
but my compass is only good
for it's needle--
for hemming
the sloppy, accidental strands
of my veins,
for pinning the faint,
transparent hearts of moths
down and dead.
I'm looking for you
in great-grandmother's photographs,
the ones that survived
her matches, her teeth;
I'm looking for that smoky
blur that's either you
or an ignorant angel.
I'm listening for you,
for the screen door slam
that will start everything
falling, until I'm up to my knees
in walls,
but I've only found you
in my sleep; your sound
the clacking of a film reel,
your smell calm and filthy,
warm as the tobacco in your fist,
your feet broken and lovely,
as useless things always are.
I'm closing my eyes
like I'm expecting a kiss,
like I know what I'm doing,
like I'm you, Ruby,
with the look of a locust,
the wandering hungry,
creatures who refuse to be found.
