The women are warm; the women sleep lightly, but the women are not waiting to be discovered.
The women have a glow about them that is not post-coital.  
The grass is dry, but itís long, and for the women it makes a fine bed.
The light surrounding the women is watery, though no lake is nearby.
The women know that if you want to kill time, you canít just say ďDie, time, die.Ē
Death, even real death, is always a metaphor; the women know this well.
Love dies with the heart that held it, the lavender mountains say to the women.
The women have dreams embedded in memories and memories embedded in dreams.
The orange sky enfolding the women smells like meteor showers above, toasted marshmallows below.
When a man passes by, the women pretend they donít notice him noticing them. Even semi-conscious, the women
                 are masters of elegance and pretended cordiality.
The women donít speak unless spoken to, but when they speak it is only of subversion.
The dream logic of the women is irrefutable.
We guess what the women are thinking about, but we canít know.
Our admiration for the women is virtually unqualified.


Elisa Gabbert is the author of The Self Unstable (Black Ocean, 2013) and The French Exit (Birds LLC, 2010). Her poetry, prose, and collaborations have appeared widely in publications such as Boston Review, Colorado Review, Conduit, Denver Quarterly, Pleaides, and elsewhere. She currently lives in Denver and blogs at
Kathleen Rooney is a founding editor of Rose Metal Press and a member of Poems While You Wait. She is the author of six books of poetry and nonfiction, including Robinson Alone (Gold Wake Press, 2013). Her debut novel, O, Democracy!, is forthcoming from Fifth Star Press in 2014.