Throat by Wendy Noonan

It's pitching in the wind again,
by a house with quiet shutters.

There, the girl runs through
stalks of wheat moving

through invisible fingers.
The dog lopes along ahead,

and she has known him,
has spent many an autumn night

combing burrs from his hair.
The wheat has a secret;

the sky will not tell it.
In old photos, when her words

are carried off on the backs of birds,
the child is more still, she must

be so still for the nulled
voice climbing down the well,

nails torn, covered in petals, leeches.
It will need to offer her

a gift. Here is the new throat
torn, and the dress sewn

for her, it is a solid yellow.
Now she is calling you Sister.




Wendy Noonan, Oregon, USA