Interpolating from the Inspection of My Shadow
I feared it would be like pulling teeth,
all hide-and-seek to avoid betrayal, not easy
like removal of a five-year-old’s wiggled incisor.
Then the miracle that my cupped hands
in hers hold water, no leaks,
no protruding river veins or age stains,
they look prayerful rather than begging.
My pointed toe could be bold, an arch
to perfect the gymnast’s leap in open air.
Where we lie within each other, flat
under the overhead lamp. Relational
set, correspondingly equal meditation
until I stand and walk away, she
extrapolates a stretch to thin, slim
without willpower on my part.
Under a new moon she mingles
with leafed-out trees, adventuress
in darkness as I bathe in moonshine.
The shadows grow this month and Tricia Knoll, the Vermont poet, sees it in the golden light of earlier sunsets, in the shadows the trees cast. For more of her poetry and information about her new book Checkered Mates.