One autumn

I walked the perimeter

of a grand stone house.
Who lived there

I did not know.

I am the kind of woman
soothed by emptiness,

confusing it for solitude.

When I lived in my mother’s house
I sought a silent corner,

windows that trapped the moon.

That I did not find it
is the primal wound

I know as my self.

I am waiting
to be an old woman

in a house you left

two days ago. 
I have always loved

a good story

told in a voice 
of granite authority.

I am listening,

finally. Hollow-hearted,
awake with the coyotes.

The desperate

swaying of the trees
makes a coven of shadows.

Who lives in this house?

asks a stranger 
walking the night.

Not you, now. Myself

I cannot explain. 
I am going to die alone.

I am going to die of love.

I was wrong to want this.