Poetry
An Old Woman Sings in Her Bed but Makes No Sound
by Keith Harrison •
The summer night is dangerous and deep.
I lie, dead still, aware of the tiniest sounds
Being so full of joy I cannot sleep.
The night is dangerous, so many lives.
I love my husband well. A sharp moon
Rubs the spine of the barn. Nothing moves.
So many lives for the small years that remain.
My skin more wrinkled than a withered prune,
I study my hand and no word can explain.
Continue reading for only $10 per month. Subscribe and gain full access to Australian Book Review. Already a subscriber? Sign in. If you need assistance, feel free to contact us.
