By Claudia Mauro

I move on,
learn to let go.
But the body, poor dog,
waits for your key in the lock.

"Come to sleep," I tell her
"She's never coming back."

She turns wooden circles
on the bed but will not lie.
"Look," I tell her,
"Stars move."

All night she watches them
while headlights sweep
the bedroom walls.

From Reading The River, Whitaker Press, 1999


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