Between the Worlds
by Anne Hill

The wind slips
through rotted window frames,
forms currents and crosscurrents
on the floor, creeps beneath
thin clothes to dance, chill
against our skin. A kettle

hums on the old stove, black
as ash, whose oven has risen
generations of patient dough.
We pass our hands over the flames,
blue to red, spreading the fire
around the room, lighting candles

against the rain. Hot water
pours into cups, mist
gathers on the window, our view
of the moon is obscured
as she sinks into the ocean.
Still as fish, we hear

the sand tremble. Our floor shifts,
a dog howls in the dark, someone
clears her throat and heaves
the new bread from the oven
onto the table, calling in the night,
sanctifying the feast.

©2001 Anne Hill