Between
The plague doctor holds hands with the ghost
ambling door to door at twilight, the trees
distilling the lush of summer.
Neighbors smile at the ghost, a cloth
animated by the shapeless wind
and movement of a body crossed over
the threshold. It’s certainty we love,
the heart finding rest, the dead
easier to tend than the dying,
cut flowers, a sprinkle of earth.
The water trembles in the basin.
Those who would visit deathbeds
trick us with hope, a treacherous brew.
Who are you? we ask the masked physician.
A bird with a hat. Man with a beak. Why
should we trust the sideways glance?
Take your herbs and staff and leather gloves,
your autumnal way of counting last breaths.
We want the lightness of winter,
the winnowing forks of trees.
The streets of Rome empty, the windows
glaze over. Buildings stand apart at noon.
Only the stones cling together
the mortar about to give,
intercessory like a creature caught
between wait and flight.
On Sunday afternoons, Laura English teaches writing to people from all walks of life. She lives in Lancaster County, PA, with her husband and four sons.