The Last Line
Ask the last one what she is waiting for
on the beveled street behind the white horses
and hypnotists, and she’ll say
nothing as she taps the cudgel against her knee.
One of the women far ahead in gold
earrings and folkloric dress looks like her sister, but
darker, finer. Is there something beyond
the rise? Silent, she wipes her bleary eyes,
shifts weight to her sodden foot tethered
to morning wind and the turbines begin:
“The Last Line” first appeared in The Seattle Review.