At dawn before night withdraws her specters
from my opening fever, I drive a chariot
robbed by a restless horseman who could not
control the panthers that pull it. His horse
is lathered; eyes roll, rollicking
galaxies.
The day's pressure
comes down hard,
rain-colored mud.
Her brother refused to cross the bridge
though he was sent to find out fear.
For seven years she must not speak of him
so she sews her mouth shut in order
not to break the spell. Almost found out,
she fears to go on, fears to turn back.
She lacks one seam on his shirt
when her needle falls into the wetland
and she has no coin assigned
to the snowy egrets sealed in words:
her message in a hollow bone.
Migration is a long way home.
A native of Austin, Texas, Robin Scofield has a book, Sunflower Cantos, forthcoming in November from Mouthfeel Press, from which "One More Border" is taken. She was a gypsy scholar for many years until she lost her way and took up sculpture, which an actual artist gently referred to as "folk art."
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