Voices on the Wind
Voices on Waiting
by Phyllis Wax
From full to a silver canoe
and back she watches the moon
and waits. Night into day she listens
for the knock, for the click
of the beckoning finger
and waits. Days ooze
into weeks, months.
She closes her eyes, melts
into memory. Her mother lets her
lick batter from a mixing bowl; her husband,
home from work, puts his arms about her;
she pulls Bobbie on his sled. It hurts
not to stay with them. Her eyes flicker open.
Disoriented, she looks around the room,
half in the gauzy here, half in the more solid past.
Her jaws clench. She wonít eat lunch. No more.
Iím ninety-eight. Iíve had enough. Reflexively
she clamps her teeth to an invisible rope,
hopes the sliver of moon
will tow her away.