A new poem by Margo Montes de Oca.

omens

The night before moving is clear & the stars
cobweb through the glass with the streetlight.
The pear tree is quiet still & full of fruit,
its leaves like paper-cranes half folded in their sleep

& the window is open — enough for some sky to spill inwards
with a coolness that flows over my arms
and Ru beside me who murmers and sighs,
his closed eyes half-moons in the pillow-dark.

The more I remember time the more I press my face to the glass of it
the more the outside world seems to vibrate with memory
of its own. It whispers through the window’s mouth &
in a language I half-understand says look,

look through the cob-light at your hand
at the border of yourself, at the center of the eyeline,
at the dust coming away. Look, a tomorrow
many years from now maybe — the same hand

with more story in it — the pears ripe again on the grass — the dog
or the ghost eating them — each bedroom you sleep in will place
a new window in your memory — each night will sing you
the same song in a different voice —

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