is she arrayed among her books, 
favored fat pen held between economic fingers, 
marshalling her voice 
to remedy the devil’s doing? 
is she parsing the flawed wisdom 
of the young unschooled race 
into words simple enough 
for our ancestors to hear? 
where are her thoughts now 
that she does not think alone? 
which is hers, and which is Hers 
and is there any meaning in the naming?  

does she lean against the sofa’s arm? 
are her legs drawn, toes tucked 
beneath the rose pillow, 
lamp light spilling across her shoulders, 
a measureless ocean of voices calling: 
redeem us from this unread exile. 
yield us into spirited day. 
has the tea gone cold 
in the ancient cup? 
has she forgotten the time again?  

is the ghost no longer persuaded 
by hint and intuition? 
is the pen propelled across the page 
flowing ink its shadow and glory? 
or is she listening: 
head tilted back, unfocused gaze staring past windows, 
searching out places 
beyond miles and hours 
and becoming, just for now, 
the secret door 
to that parallel world 


by Thom Cooley