One blind drawn

One blind drawn

Nothing complete

Everything is partial

The wind punches the Jackoranda

The air, heavy and heaving

Lives come and go

Buggies pass in procession.

School days,

A slow march

Toward obscurity.

What happens to the mothers

When the dream is over

There is life beyond the veil.

They live until

The edge of the frame

Nothing moves

Until the next wave

When the coffee pot boils.

The smell of it reminds me

Of early morning

Routines

Work stations.

The chatter of vibrant voices

Full of promise

Interns

Waiting to be swamped

With thankless tasks

The stink of sweat

In a locker room

After a full day

Tending the needy.

Fresh blood

Overworked before they

Find their feet.

The sad face of loss

Comes to us all

Even in the still of morning.

A stray branch

Scrapes against the window

I could be anywhere

Frozen in shadow

Gazing at a bloodied field

A dirt road

Leading both ways

To nowhere.

It always comes back

To a beginning

An end.

I close my hands

Grasping the space between

Mystery and imagination

I come up with nothing

But nail marks

On my palms.

It is not stigmata

I am not thrice blessed

And I don’t believe in magic.