by Lisa Cihlar

Lately I have been partaking
of dark places; movie theaters, bars, beds.
Walking out at night when the noise of traffic
doesn’t quite drown the crickets crying
to escape the blacktop and concrete
for something green.
 
The shapeless shadow that moves at the end
of an alley, in a recessed doorway,
might be what I am waiting for
or what waits for me.
It wants to tell me a story
about lost mothers
and oranges so big
they eclipse the moon.
 
This man or bear or Saint Bernard
walks with me on all fours,
stopping when the traffic signal
tries to save our lives,
even when there are no cars
or ambulances.  I step off the curb
as if to go.  A hand, claw, paw holds me back
to save me from myself.
 
We climb the stairs of a burnt-out church,
torched last winter by a naked man
trying to stay warm.
Angels told me how, he howled.
Still the steeple stands and old women,
wearing wool scarves and coats in July,
leave flowers and lit candles
every day.  My companion suggests
that a place as filled with fire as this—
but the voice in the dark trails off.
I nod my head in agreement.
This is not a surprise.