WHAT THE DARK WAS

A moment later it is raining.
She has fallen in the dark on sharp stones beyond    the gates.
She has bound herself in the dog's chains.
Her wrist has no feeling; her hip is wrapped
in thunder. What good can come of crying out?
The dark is what covers their ears.
One more night bird, another mammal at the side of    the road.
That nameless. That simple.
The soul that far from the mind or the bone.

First published in Notre Dame Review