Ruth Bavetta

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Into the Wind 

We sleep with only plaster
between us, yet each day lays down
another brick. Where are we
in this new world? What answers
can I give you? Each day, you walk
farther into the weeds.
Night presses against the glass.
I cannot tell you it’s a dream.

I Can’t Remember

There were only your breaths, gasping
now, the music of death flowing
through the afternoon, the sunlight
silent in the air. I held your hand
under the sheet. I can’t remember
who was there. I can’t remember
what I wore. I can’t remember
when your hand grew cold.


When I return
the structure has been changed.
What was once the door
is boarded up.
Circling the building I find
only a narrow slit
near what had been
the kitchen window.
The kitchen, of course, is gone,
as is the dining room.
The stairs have been moved
to a hidden corner. Black blankets
are sewn over all the windows.
I can’t hear his voice any more.


Ruth Bavetta’s poems have been published in Rattle, Nimrod, North American Review, Slant, Tar River Poetry, Spillway, Hanging Loose, Poetry East and many others. She has published four books, and has work included in several anthologies. She writes at a messy desk with a view over the Pacific.