Ellen Romano
Key to Dreams
After Rene Magritte
A horse is the slam of hooves
stomping the ground in retreat,
the swaying tail waves good-bye.
Or a door opens instead of closing,
and the horse is what carries you
across the threshold.
Of course the clock,
time’s stand in,
is the wind rushing by
unseen but felt.
And a bird is like a pitcher,
filled and emptied
again and again.
How it takes in the worm,
how the worm becomes flight.
But a valise is a valise, always
up for the journey, fitting so easily
into your hand it’s hard to let go, even
as it drags you to the bottom of the river.
The Last Woman on Earth
gazes at the moon
and unfathomable stars beyond,
reduced by distance
to pinpoints of light.
Her lonely history is written
in the constellations she renames
as they wheel across the sky,
Isolation, Futility, Breath.
Near dawn she enters the house
now falling into disrepair,
remembers racing, laughing,
up the stairs with the man
whose death made her the last human.
The dog coaxes her on,
step, step, step, step,
the turn at the landing
then into the bedroom.
Solitude is a taste in her mouth,
a touch from a hand that isn’t there.
She sleeps at last in the empty house,
in the empty world,
under the falling stars
she has named for her sorrow,
for her love.
Ellen Romano resumed writing poetry after thirty years when the COVID pandemic and the sudden death of her husband compelled her to do so. She lives in Hayward, California and enjoys frequent visits with her children and grandchildren. She is the winner of Third Wednesday’s 2023 Poetry Prize and several awards from the Ina Coolbrith Circle. Her work has appeared in Lascaux Review, Naugatuck River Review, december magazine and other publications.
