Girl

Girl,
What is your name?
What is it that the universe calls you as you
walk by my house,
day after day, fast
all in black?

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. . . .echos
like a child crying--
like you Girl. Like you.

What is it that your mother called you, Girl,
who were you -- baby
when you cried?

Cried tears
like silver buttons. . .
all down your back.

Oh, Miss Mary.
I would pay you fifty cents
if you will tell me

What calls you to dress
in a dress. . .when nobody your age-in this age-
wears a dress. . .that covers arms and legs
so sweetly,
so mysteriously,
so plainly,
and matches the night . . . .

you walking in meditation
for miles and miles
until you are thin as the long hair
that falls down your back,

as thin as the line between
love and the smell of ginger
and cloves,

as thin as the light before winter

closes in,

as thin as the sound of a voice cracking
to call out to you—

to ask you your name,

to make room for your sad story

this sunset
before the lake

freezes over.