Ruth Foley

Her methods are bullet-proof:
the quiet disappearance, the secret passage,
the twelve different bottles in the drawer
between layers of unread books and scrawls
of narrow-ruled notebook pages, twelve
shakes all it takes to mix a quiet breath
with distant ocean engines and seagull calls.
Down narrow stairs, an old deck light
glows, a buoy just off the port bow.
The house is red with it.
Still, she is lighter than she thought,
her feet colder, her blood still
concealed—if just—below her skin.
Outside, the air is lighter, too,
clean April riding the salt to this
narrow porch, to this small chair.
Tonight, Orion will be fading,
Cygnus and Aquila beginning to fly.
Tonight, Lyra will play quietly above her.
Her breath, the turning of the waves.

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