Greta Hansen
A Cold Walk

I am not so glamorous
as Carinda Bell, not so brave
as Kalla, who, I'd guess, is curing
old women in Cambodia with her thin tan
arms and gauze as crisp and white
as skin on a child's knee. Carinda Bell,
I'm sure, succeeds in lounging like a cat
near windows in the upper west side.
Her clothes are fresh-cut drapes,
her voice low, rare as her eyes.
What are they up to, my old imaginary
friends? I should remember them sometimes.

I am walking by the Charles. Its bristled
with the white of a thousand random teeth;
how can it feel such rapture on this cold
clear night? There are a few geese quibbling
on a puddle flat and silver as a dime.
At my footsteps they take flight, a large
black quivering net, abreast.

I will feel naked taking off my clothes tonight.

<< Back to Issue 4, 2002