1. House by a Railroad

She minds the lilacs.

What can be saved, she saves:

dried flowers, tarnished costume jewelry,

half-used boxes of face-powder.

She imagines a man will call to her from the train:

“The fruits of summer are here!”

Sun pierces the house like the whistle

of the train. Inside she waits,

knitting the heavy light of afternoon.

A few pieces of Sandwich glass

glow in the windows.

The aspidistra, which never grows,

throws spiky shadows at her feet.

2. East Side Interior

She minds the cool

moonshine in the room.

In the frame of the window,

her soft profile, dark mass of hair,

she bends low, sewing.

Her African violets bloom all winter.

She thinks bones, she thinks rivers,

she things bread and yeast,

the way the white curtain

billows over the bed.

She will stay at the window through dusk

like a ghost at the sewing machine,

opaque and beautiful and lost.

3. Nighthawks

She minds her cheap gardenia perfume,

her tight red dress.

The way this reflection goes,

she sees only her angular arms

and the drugstore counter;

neon blots out the rest, except for fragments

of her dress mirrored on the coffee urn.

The men can’t figure why she comes here,

night after night.

They haven’t seen her room and won’t.

She wonders why she can’t leave

the harsh light of this town, wonders

if every town contains only two stories.