In the Meantime

by Lisa Olstein

What seemed a mystery was

in fact a choice. Insert bird for sorrow.

What seemed a memory was in fact

a dividing line. Insert bird for wind.

Insert wind for departure when everyone is

standing still. Insert three mountains

burning and in three valleys a signal seer

seeing a distant light and a signal bearer

sprinting to a far-off bell. What seemed

a promise was in fact a sigh.

What seemed a hot wind, a not quite enough,

a forgive me, it has flown away, is in fact.

In the meantime we paint the floors

red. We stroke the sound of certain names

into a fine floss that drifts across our teeth.

We stay in the room we share and listen

all night to what drifts through the window—

dog growl, owl call, a fleet of mosquitoes

setting sail, and down the road,

the swish of tomorrow’s donkey-threshed grain.