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stephen kuusisto   Ode to My Sleeping Pills  
 
kuusisto photo   Dusk that passes
through a priest's glove,
evening with spring birds,
it's good of you to wait
like the sister
who gives out bread
at the convent,
where in twilight
a line of children
stands at the window,
the bread a dry rustling
from her invisible hands.

Each warm bundle
includes its black feather,
twigs from the first nest.
With these you comb my hair,
smooth my face,
perfect me in secret
like the rose
that was eaten at dawn
by that early Pope
whose name I won't remember.

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Copyright © 1998 Stephen Kuusisto.