I.

In the dream
we are
as once we were,
holding each other,
shy and young.

I ask you to name
this thing you have done.
Your lips part,
but the February wind
sweeps in and takes
your breath.

Each night I unravel
your choice.
Each morning I wake
to your death.

II.

It will not yield. Not on this side.
It never does. I have tried
to pick the lock, to press
the secret spring, to guess
the password. I have knocked
and cried till all my voice was air.
And still I stand and stare

at my small, bruised hands.
At this great stone door.

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Catherine Ann Rogers

Catherine Ann Rogers teaches English at Savannah State University in Savannah, Georgia. Her poetry has appeared in The Reach of Song (the annual publication of the Georgia State Poetry Society), Kalliope: A Journal of Women's Literature and Art, and online at the InterBoard Poetry Competition's New Poetry Voices page. When not teaching or writing, she sings with I Cantori, a 24-voice chamber ensemble. She lives in Savannah with her husband, two children, four cats, two dogs, and an indeterminate number of gerbils.

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© 2006 Catherine Ann Rogers