The woman in the window

 

rinses her cup. Her husband’s

left for work. He binds books

in a room where dead flies collect

in the corners. Her son’s

boarded the bus for school.

 

She, knowing few of the intricacies

 

of workday life, considers

a second cup of coffee and stops.

She remembers what she dreamed:

her father dragging a rake

through grass and roots

in an Anatolian village.

 

As the lump in her breast

 

grows larger, she puts on a red skirt

and waits by the mirror

for light to fill the room again—

the sun of villages, and smooth,

rich, almost virgin soil.