“Walk” by Karah Stokes

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I walk past porches where the living drink wine
and dispute the same sums again and again.
I walk past the farthest lanterns.
From here I view the houses of the dead.
Their white cornices, lit by fading sun, line the high bluff
on the far side of the river.
Insects are different here.
Sounds are closer, more distinct.
Sizes mutate in the darkness.
Nothing has shape.  We are all the same fabric.
I walk back to my own porch with its familiar white cornice.
Here I sit, morning and evening, in the same shade.
Curtains billow with the breeze.  The garden billows with
a kind of mint that brings sleep.
The gown I wear must be deepest purple.
I draw the water, add handfuls of salt.
The fabric billows in the dark dye.
I weight it with stones.
-Karah Stokes

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