Meg Smith

Crowded Woman We cannot know her.She grew from long, autumn rows.Such was her harvest of names.Whether sleeping, or waking,she carried them, grew them,burned them, until her bodyburned wholly, coal fire inthe October sun. The Last Comet Watch This one's up to me.I search among rooftopsand silhouettes of trees.This one is mine, alone.I spoke to you before,of Hale-Bopp, which was ours,a joining together of ourhearts, and homestead.I recalled to you in the dimming light,of that gold room, your eyes sightless,in search of twilight.Bright is the soot that binds us,lighting in the heart of ashes.Now, we're both coming home,one beacon, in this shadow of our Earth. Our Failed Kestrel It fell behind, wings dragging,because it sang too much.It cried out,scaring away its prey.Its last resort was a raptor sanctuary.And how we loved it,and carried it in our memory.And how we loved it,even as your own call had come to silence.Now, I will carry both your songs.Think of me, still on terra firma.Think of me, on this good soilthat will someday release me,and we will sing praise together once more. Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. Her poems have recently appeared or will appear in Muddy River Poetry Review, The Cafe Review, Poetry Bay, and many others. She is the author of five poetry books, and welcomes visits to