7/17/2019 Between the Worlds

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Between the Worldsby Anne Hill

The wind slips

through rotted window frames,

forms currents and crosscurrentson the floor, creeps beneath

thin clothes to dance, chill

against our skin. A kettle

hums on the old stove, black

as ash, whose oven has risen

generations of patient dough.

We pass our hands over the flames,

blue to red, spreading the fire

around the room, lighting candles

against the rain. Hot water

pours into cups, mist

gathers on the window, our view

of the moon is obscured

as she sinks into the ocean.

Still as fish, we hear

the sand tremble. Our floor shifts,

a dog howls in the dark, someone

clears her throat and heaves

the new bread from the ovenonto the table, calling in the night,

sanctifying the feast.

©2001 Anne Hill