far

Poetry

My Body Is A Temporary Residence

Fyn Goldstein
issue six

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Mind was a wanderer-
I did not know her well.

But there were times, she would
come and stop in my doorway

and rock -like a wooden horse-
between my slanted walls.

I suppose you could call it
a kind of courtship- the way

she would teeter on the edge
of me, then turn and blush.

It was only on the colder nights,
she dared to stay a little longer.

She would curl up on the hearth
to keep herself warm, but by morning

she was gone again. And I -a hollowed
chamber- watched her, then, as she clung

to ambivalence the way a November
branch clings to its last dying leaf.

And although I wanted her to stay-
to fill these halls will breath, and blood,

And other gilded things-
I knew how the story went.

Mind was a wanderer, and
Body- a temporary residence.