The head knows
the child who grew inside her

is no more. Between
head and heart

a tundra lies,
windswept and cold,

to be crossed on foot
without boots

or overcoat. The heart
winds itself

round and round
with silk thread,

tight enough
to hold everything

breaking. The head
consoles: in time

the miles to go
will grow shorter.

Muffled in silk, cocooned,
the heart cannot see

the houses have lights on,
can only reach back

like a blind person
to the way things were.