Anne Heide


Seventy-eighth Year



SCENE: Big empty hospital, towels for blouses pinned to stay tight to the shoulder.


Her seat her
window seat directly across from city hall
                      (This is not where she was married)


she can watch them all from here
the nurse watches Eva.

                      The nurse is a widow.
                      Here, let me show you:

                      her husband is dead because
                      she poisoned him. A mercy,
                      not because he was in pain,
                      but because she was.




“I am already buried” “I am already married”

          and her thin fingers
          gentle on the window

“I am already exhumed          exhausted”

“Let me adjust your pillow” Ever moves the down from under her neck














here




Are her fingers wrapped already
around everything in the room.

Ever holds her neck, stiffly.
clack of heels behind the curtain.




(The nurse leaves the room at immediately. Ever reminds her of her late husband. After she exits, husband on mind, she gives charcoal to a girl who simply swallowed too much. For her, this is safe.)





“I told you he walked in front of me and disappeared beneath me.” This is something Eva remembers from year ago. Years ago.








here is her shadow pressed                          shadows can be white,                too.
and here is where she left
him at city hall bouquet
in hand fingers in her ghost

Eva is breathing lead, asbestos.

                                                                            shadows can write,       too.




Sixty-fifth Year



Sleep in her bed, she is sleeping. And where are her feet and yours?





Outside, are those people or herons? Are those herons or coyotes?





Outside, where Eva is sleeping. Ever has a big truck he could load her into and take her home and carry her inside. This is a problem.





Her feet are white.





I haven’t known you yet or your children.           This isn’t confusion. This is Eva.




Fifty-seventh Year



How did Eva dress
her house, and become
so suddenly dressed
herself.


          Blue she says blue wax
          what else can blue be?


Smoke.


And what more wallpaper
could she need to set
afire.


What room in Ever’s
is his and what room is her
bed.

This is the difficulty
of construction.

In a constricted home.
Whose bed, but both.

What is this house made of

but basement?

          What else is blue she replies
          like concrete,my home.



Anne Heide edits the poetry journal CAB/NET out of Denver. Her poetry and reviews have most recently appeared or is forthcoming in Notre Dame Review, Shampoo, Coconut, Octopus, HOW2 and Xantippe, among others. She is currently working towards a doctorate in English and Creative Writing at the University of Denver.

 
 
 
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