A blurred view out at a blue sky and autumnal tees
Sasha Arutyunova

The Green Tram

A poem for Sunday

In my 46th year there
are so many things
I want to tell you.
How everyone is
drunk at Wimbledon,
and a fox has come to live in our
garden. We feed
him duck livers from a can.
In return he doesn’t destroy
the plantings. We are shunned
on the block.

          Oh, there are days when
the darkness falls
too fast and I feel myself
spinning. And the tram
that runs past the windbreak
beyond the house—so snug
and cozy as we approach winter—
glides by with a terrifying
gentleness.

                        Aglow.
A few passengers inside
decked in masks. Bent
into newspapers
as in prayer. A sigh
of wind and they become a winking
light receding through the trees.
I wonder if I will ever understand your
inability to answer me
in these thoughts where
you live. You inside my life
a green-lit perfection, so loving
and yet so soundless I can almost
address you. I think of
you every morning
as I spread marmalade
on my toast in this strange
country a decade later.