The Lost Girl (Poetry 1997)

The lost girl is sunlight, she’s shadow. She
walks like an arrow in the morning, at night.
She walks straight in anger, in sorrow; sees
things around her, sees nothing, she’s deep.

The lost girl has answers; has words without
meaning, walks alone, has direction, has knowledge,
has truth. Her dreams keep her busy, she’ll know them,
she’ll tell them, will overhear whispers, will mourn.

The lost girl is tender as footprints in powder. She walks
like an arrow, was taken, retreated in silence, in darkness,
with comfort like stones. There was safety, a haven, with
angels and infinite rainbows, where freedom was love.

She was beauty. Her strength was like ages,
like eagles, like bones. Her thoughts were as
wordless as velvet; her secrets like knives.

The lost girl had riches. She had key chains
and lipstick. Her hair was in pigtails,
her fingernails polished, her dress was
undone. Her face was familiar; her name
was repeated in stations, in tunnels, on highways.

This girl was a child, is a woman, was hurt. No one
can see her. I’ve waited these days for the visions,
the movement, as hours unravel, as rhythms combine.
On the pavement her footsteps were sharp,
but they faded. They mingled. They’re gone.

The corners will turn her, the mirror; the moon is her
sister, her savior. The wind moves around her, her dress
stirs, her arms are like branches, like starlight, like clouds.
She walks like an arrow, with purpose, direction, her feet
strike the earth like a drum. Like a song.

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