These nights when the wind blows,
I lay my head on the pillow,
I lay my head on white feathers,
white down, tag ends of Memory.
White feathers, white down,
I’m wrapped in a nightgown stiffening,
year by year, against the cold.
My arms hug the pillow, light
as a feather when we lie in love’s
weather, but tonight I sleep alone,
the closet full of skeletons that grin
in the chilly breeze. Starving,
they climb love’s zero by degrees,
as I will, the pillow dreaming
furious dreams. Dreams not my own.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 4 Number 3, on page 37
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