Mary Jo Bang
Louise In Love
Louise In Love
Much had transpired in the phantom realm:
Are we whole now? Louise asked.
I think we are, the other said.
And from the mirror: no longer blue in the face, and vague;
only destiny's dove bending a broke wing and beckoning.
The ride had been open and long, the car resplendent.
What rapture, this rode into sunset. This elegant end
where a band tugs a sleeve,
a hand labors with an illusion
of waving away a thread. And then they came to something
big: down the block, winking red lights and a crowd
of compelling circumference.
They were one with the woman, her rosacea face,
the snapdragon terrier, ten men in black helmets, a man supine
on a stretcher. O the good and the evil of accident.
They were wary, and justifiably so. The mind says no,
Louise admitted, but the heart, it loves repetition
and sport:
cat’s paw from under the bedskirt,
dainty wile, frayed thing,
fish hook.
