Island

American Poetry Review, The, Jan/Feb 2001 by Gluck, Louise

The curtains parted. Light

coming in. Moonlight, then sunlight.

Not changing because time was passing

but because the one moment had many aspects.

White lisanthus in a chipped vase.

Sound of the wind. Sound

of lapping water. And hours passing, the white sails

luminous, the boat rocking at anchor. Movement, but not movement in time.

The curtains shifting or stirring; the moment

shimmering, a hand moving

backward, then forward. Silence. And then

one word, a name. And then another word:

again, again. And time

salvaged, like a pulse between

stillness and change. Late afternoon. The soon to be lost

becoming memory; the mind closing around it. The room

claimed again, as a possession. Sunlight,

then moonlight. The eyes glazed over with tears.

And then the moon fading, the white sails flexing.