Cousin Wolf Sings

Her all-night melody blushes
like directions for new lovers
             who are lost.

Last night all she held was a hum
             that ran away.

She now stretches words in our broken-down car

somewhere on Valley View
between Orphaned Lane
              and the dead end,

about hidden roads and streets
of homes for all the abandoned.

I study the map when she falls from crescendo.

Flashlight held by my teeth,
her voice needs
both hands to trace.

She leads me down paths disappearing
into blue lines holding
             imaginary rivers,

blacking in thin creases
and folds or contoured lines.

She drones about the water. I find the blue again.
My hand pressed against
                                                the faded shore.
More Poems by Ibe Liebenberg