Alba
by Madeleine Cravens
After the accident, after the bad date,
the bad year, the bad song, the black-out,
after the six hundred nights of solitude,
in the weak hours of morning, in the long
moment of waking, as I turn toward
the window, this is when it happens.
Everyone with their lovers or in nature,
coming up to touch each other in the dawn
kitchen. My aloneness has a shape to it.
It has a name. It loves the open window.
It expands beyond the statues, past the plaza
and the gardens, the shuttered public library.
My aloneness is spectacular. It burns
like nothing I know. But there is a voice
on the other side of the water. There is a sound
held in the mouth. Light hits the plaza.
My aloneness is a golden horse.
It runs the sidewalk, flaming.
