The Widow

Outside the air isn't tinted
so much as it is swollen
with the scent of orange
blossoms.
Inside the room is made dark
by the drawing of curtains,
stale by the ventless closing
of windows. Humbled by the
shape of her, fetus-like a top
the bed, unmoving.
Outside the dawn keeps breaking
the day. The grass keeps growing.
Lives begin and end on cue
as though orchestrated.
Inside she learns "in limbo" isn't
just a catch phrase, "trapped"
finally makes sense, and "normal"
is something she took for granted
far too long.
She knows she should get up,
start moving, stretch her limbs,
flex her brain. She knows she
shouldn't be alone like she is.
Shouldn't stay fisted up like this.
But, outside the birds are chirping
and the wind might find cause
to blow. Outside things can happen,
flowers can bloom and music
can filter out the windows of passing
cars. People can say things and do
things and look a certain way, make
expressions that are sure to remind
her of him.

Concealment

(prev. pub. in 2 River View, Spring 2000)

maybe
old boots
are just your way
of saying
so much for pretenses
and mud packed avenues.
this is Arizona afterall.
we don't get a lot of rain.
dust, yes
some wind
both I could live without.
but here you are
strutting around in broken
down leather, steely toed
and rudimentary, cracked
and creased as if
you've traveled up and down
a beaten path, loving every inch
of height they bring you.
and there you go
tracking nothing
but a dry wash,
splitting air
with every step,
candidly foaming
at the sole.

Lisa Zaran is a poet and essayist living in Mesa, Arizona. Some recent credits include: 3rd Muse, Steel Point Quarterly, Atomic Petals (forthcoming), The Green Tricycle, King Log, and The Horsethief Journal. When not writing I work for the Phoenix branch of a brokerage house.