Dress Rehearsal

on the studio window. A crow looks in,

hopping and shrieking when I dance

in my black tutu, trimmed with silver.

The ballet master says, you are its mother.

But in a crow’s sky-knowing mind

could I be so misconstrued?

Out of the blackest

cold-wet air, the crow seems molded.

The stars will not wake up to guide it

back to the creek of shadows

where it was formed. Practice, practice.

I am smoke in darkness, climbing away

from a burning hut, in an otherwise empty field

on which the fire is slight and low,

and the rest of it is snow.