will you still be here
will the car idle outside
still waiting for me
will we drive into
the quiet of ended snow
maps on the dashboard
your hand on my thigh
pushing forward the still night
miles still left to go
Colleen Keefe, 2021
Gerald's House
There are many ways to return.
Once in winter you descended
through scudding clouds
to touch down
on the wet tarmac of Cole Farm,
yellow cab waiting.
Once you swam the breadth
of the Merrimack from Badgers Cove
to this near shore,
dripping onto black sand.
On the striped blanket
you left your dark shadow,
the wet imprint fading
in the sun.
And there are still
other ways we have not yet taken.
I have maps of them all,
let me show you.
Here is the Ghost House
at the trail’s elbow,
and there, a loose strand
of her hair, or your hip
pressed into the bed,
your body the sea
sinking in to the shore.
Turn right, now, at Basin Street,
and park by the marsh,
amid the sucking mud and flies
and Gerald’s house low
against the sky.
We always told you
we’d come back.
We are still, even now
learning how.
Colleen Keefe, 2021
Six Haiku, Almost
I walk down into
Our forest, the breath of pines
Crisp over the snow
Bright sky through dark limbs.
My boot heels sink into black.
Cold and wet, this world
Lifts up, clean and spare.
I live between white and white
Greens and blues stripped bare
Until suddenly
Three does rush through, hoofs on snow
Circling, turning home.
I turn too. My breath
Is hot, steaming in the still
Blanket of this world.
My boots by the front door,
Our house warm as laundered sheets,
This home, us, breathing.
Colleen Keefe, 2020
Spring
When the handprint of winter
still lingers in the air
when words you speak turn light
spiraling like moths
when light falls around us
like a warm body, breathing
when stray dogs emerge from ditches and empty lots
confused, stringy and eager
when you raise your hand like a gift
or question
when your mother is out in the hills
gathering sage
when spring approaches
timidly, like a wild deer
when I lift my head out from dying snow
surprised, and press my hand against the windowpane
when windows fly open, finally, everywhere
and the wind blows warm
through our simple hearts
Colleen Keefe, 1992
Tonight
you can look tonight
into the pale
folds of evening
the smell of woodsmoke muttering
in chimneys
you can walk
among dog-eared pages
of the story of a city
as it tells itself to you
in the snow
you can dream afterwards
of your thin white hands
in an empty bathtub, testing
your body like a moth spinning
into the hungry sky