THE EVOLVING CITY
When I see you standing black-coated,
cigarette in hand, at the top of the subway stairs,
looking at me before the plunge underground,
the slate-grey sky becomes
the eighth great wonder of the natural world,
backdrop and stage, steely beauty.
Autumn cold seals us,
suspending everything just so
from pigeons scattered across concrete
to that car gliding idly by.
This November, no one
knows our names, and there is nothing
that can touch us.
In this common light,
your ink-dark, almond eyes shine
like doorways to the other side.
They are fixed and open for an instant,
when all the city stops, and I step through.
Heather Davis received
a B.A. in English from Hollins University and an M.A. in Creative Writing
from Syracuse University. Her poems have appeared in Poet Lore,
Puerto del Sol, Sonora Review, and So to Speak.
She was awarded the 2007 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award
for The Lost Tribe of Us (to be published in October 2007).
She is also a member of DC Poets Against the War. She lives in northern
Virginia with her husband and daughter and writes in the wee hours of
Published in Volume
8, Number 4, Fall 2007.
To read more by this author:
Split This Rock Issue