March

56 the minnesota review Darlene Gold March You'd been walking for miles, trying to outlast the gleam of moon, the dark sky's silver fruit circular as your breath. All you knew was night, its fluted edges, a river in midmotion frozen. One movement followed itself to a cabin, where a mirror held the reflection, my reflection, on which you lay your face. You'd been jangled numb by the heft of flat metal suns, by marching bands failing to rouse you. You of the silent journey, you sleeper: you imagined you could amble, eyes closed, over a river, into a cabin, unaware that I was tucked away inside your coin purse, wrapped in your hair, poking you with a stick. ...