Blue Yodel Of The Lost Child

Frank Stanford

You're so dusty,
Like a nightgown
Thrown down from the attic.
Always late
And used to dark places
Like the beautiful white spider,
The moon.
What would I do with you,
Give you a fan
To spread in the theatre
When you're blind,
And have the wind
Make its legend at your back.
I've thought about letting you
Search for your death,
Dowse for yourself
With a forked stick,
But I keep waking up wet
With a twig of blood
In my lips.
I can't find you.
Now you're quiet,
Like a loaf of rising bread.
A letter to the condemned,
You came too late
Like the snow
Who calls you his wife now,
And your breasts will never be
Heavy with milk,
And your voice like an owl
On every fence post.

Ginny Stanford