Angela Hume

Late September

1.

Is it possible—

unwanted light strikes her clear
void eyes

and refracts,
tinks

the glass case, the clean
wood.

Is it?

She is calling out to you. She is
a pool

of white.

2.

Who is the man who enters
your house

a yellow sweetness
about him—

skin, or yeast, or cigarettes.

He is not
a young man anymore.

Twelve years old—

A wild bleating
so riven with pneumonia

(he should have—).

She said a figure
came to the room.

She said, I felt
warm, at peace.

You said:

Since then, we think
he hasn’t been

the same.

3.

I’ll ask:

Does your text fill
like a house

slung open—

and they pursued after him, and caught him, and cut off his thumbs and his great toes

Do you wait for the text
to speak

to you—

but they let go the man and all his family

What are you looking for, i.e., what are
the signs.

Ridden with belief
you finish out

your life.

The italicized text is from Judges 1:6, 25 (KJV).

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