The Shape of the Light

At the pass,

the kettle blackened on the stone

You folded my letter

and carried it home

Dust in the rifle sling,

frost in the canteen A photograph

swept where the cartridge had been

Mother, don’t wait by the gate

tonight

The mountain keeps changing the shape

of the light If I come

back quiet, don’t ask me why

There are roads in my hands

that refuse to lie

We counted the engines below the

ravine

Then shared one orange beneath the

machine

Your boot had a tear and

your sleeve had a stain You

joked about spring,

though it sounded like rain

Mother, don’t wait by the gate

tonight

The mountain keeps changing the shape

of the light If I come

back quiet, don’t ask me why

There are roads in my hands

that refuse to lie

A red scarf caught on the

wire in the wind

A name on the roll that

was never crossed in The radio

crackled, then gave us the time

And someone began an old song

out of line

By dawn,

every window was powdered with sand

The map lost a border beneath

my left hand

I promised the valley I’d learn

to forgive But the valley said

nothing—it

only let live Mother,

don’t wait by the gate tonight

The mountain keeps changing the shape

of the light If I come

back quiet, don’t ask me why

There are roads in my hands

that refuse to lie

At the pass,

the kettle cools on the stone

I fold your old letter

and carry it home