The Thief

I am not saying “mark my words,”
as the thief says early each winter.
He leaves nothing of value. He too wants.
A brute with language, he has a fondness
for preaching. I am bathed to luster.
Memories move musically through my bones.
He sings above, vaults off a horse with feigned
kindness, lands so fancy. Letting go of this,
sitting with tropical leaves the size of men
in a terrarium, I am beautiful. He means well,
admonishing women. He is lucky
with the show of crankiness.
What does it mean to let go the envy?
I sometimes hope stars don’t spread themselves
over New York’s lights. Performing for himself,
glasses glittering, he reads stories of poverty,
claims them all as his own.
Here in Colorado irises of all colors unfold
outwards to the half-hidden sun. On the cracked
cement, chilly before rain, I see perpetual
beginnings. I’m going to forget him:
lock him in a box in my head,
lock him in the haunt of violins, let go
what’s his in the hurl of breath of my groans.

More Poems by Sheryl Luna