by Eszter Takacs

In her final weeks she is obsessed with windows,
     tracing the shape of every kind,
          inlaid and double-hanger
     slashed, slung and midway
fingers along the cracks in the glass
     and eyes judging the distance back to Earth
          from every height and at church, outlining heads
     where pictures would be, she stares through
into the abysmal flanks of awning,
     laying dimes in the bay sills,
          prying the panes of the jalousie,
     sitting under the cupola playing
whistle-toe-miss-me, picking which
     square to shoot through, hands outstretched.
          The light comes in and skims the rack,
     slick cones under thistle
against day-clouds, quarry and pine,
     spruce and willow tearing at the sky
          and there, underneath a monster
     she could scream herself free
of everything electric.
     She plays gin rummy under blake-moons
          and lies to me that she forgot French, lost her cat
     and that her hands canít wrangle the clay
into make-believe anymore.
     Her statues come alive
          and I begin to believe the witch stories
     of always looking for knee-bones
and lip-stained architecture, that everything
     crumpled between her fingers
          belonged to that moment when.