St. Francis Court

by Danica Colic

That autumn as I brushed my hair or ate or spoke
or heard an echo I was nothing so large as myself
or so small. You touched me and I felt I disappeared
or spread like a vapor across the hard fall sky,
the weeks of rain blackening the flagstones,
the heels of the walkers cracking like flints.
In your room a lamp burned brightly and lit
like filaments the clouds of hair beneath your arms.
Where was I when I saw this? I must have at times
inhabited myself. I remember one night in particular—
I stood at the stove, stirring. I wore a sweater which hid my nape
and wished to call you with only that part of my body
and so let the sweater fall. How proud I was, your mouth
suddenly on me. Where did I go when you drew me
from myself so quickly that what followed was erased?
Some days I spend alone working in silence, then go outside
to find the buildings dark with water, the air blurred
by the departure of rain I hadn't known was falling.