Friend, some nights when I
smoke on the fire escape,
I search beyond the snow-plowed streets
to the cold blue light of the study
in the tower in which you've walled yourself,
surrounded by minions and the books
that bolster your arguments.
Who will question you in this place?
You exile those who question, and your eyes,
which sometimes wheel this way
like searchlights do not make me out,
but cast the bright interior
shape of your face across mine.
Over and over, you erase me this way.
Still, I know the last kind word
that passed between us must circle
your tower. A small white bird,
it pecks your sill, songless,
its heart thrumming dimly.
It will not leave you,
however heavy the shade you draw,
however broad the back you turn.
It taps the frosted glass with a sound
like tiny iron letters embossed
against parchment, keys pressed
by fingers on a hand you refuse
to reach for, however much alone.
Mary Karr
The Devil's Tour