Dorty Nowak WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW
Across the back fence I hung Tibetan prayer flags the week after
you died. I didn’t tell our neighbor Sophie, they hung only on our side.
When I met her walking - the street I don’t remember, she said
I heard the news. How are you?
I’m sorry for your loss.
I could never live without my Fred.
My heart fluttered, hands flapped.
If you’re ever lonely, knock on our door,
A crow pecked an answer from my lips.
From my kitchen window I see the maple at the back of her property.
It’s been there since before our times. In summer, generous green
shades our yards. When fall winds feather my garden with leaves,
I sometimes want to cut the tree down.
Sophie has hung a birdhouse and tray from a limb, its raw wood not
yet weathered. From my window I watch a crow perch to feed,
scattering sparrows like seed.
I took your seat, it offered a garden view. From it I peer over the fence
into Sophie’s kitchen. Each morning Fred sits by the window drinking
coffee, reading the paper. Each morning I greet him
Good morning, Fred.
Looks like a sunny day.
Do you believe the ruckus in Washington?
He never answers, how could he? Besides, I know from years with you,
a response is not guaranteed. I watch him sip coffee, flap the pages, worry
when he isn’t there. Sophie doesn’t know I’ve borrowed her husband,
and sure as the crow flies, neither will you.
Dorty Nowak is a poet and writer living in Paris and Berkeley whose work has appeared in the U.S. and France. She is a graduate of Northwestern University and The University of Chicago.