In the morning she was an opening to another room, not a door, more like a window, an opaque pane where the light, bending slightly, shone like the sound of darkness, shimmered like the call of a pair of veeries whose songs circle each other. Through her mouth the day passed, clocked its pains and sorrows, the leaves turned in the wind and looking west the sun hissed on the sea’s cold horizon. Through her came her mother’s voice, so far away that she could remember it only in rain. A small fish slipped through, threading its thin body along the softness of the river’s lithe current. Through her opening the day flowed like sand from one side of the hour to the next. Filled one room with beaches, then the next and the next, until they reached the ocean. All open, she could enter and swim, become porpoise, water, molecule, air. ____
Rebecca Siegel lives and writes in Vermont. Her poems have appeared in Bloodroot Literary Magazine, as part of PoemCity Montpelier, Dust Poetry Magazine, Analog Magazine, Goat’s Milk Magazine, Zócalo Public Square, Container’s Multitudes series, Straight Forward Poetry, and elsewhere.