Our History

Jane Munro
From:   Point No Point

in a fifties Pontiac
kissing the man I'd marry—
wet December night
the privacy
of a rain-splattered windshield—
taking off
his glasses, his pupils huge

as buffalo on a
prairie—the dark lens
of a species
we squandered—the past's long gaze
fixing us

Poem 1 | Poem 2 | Poem 3 | Poem 4 | Poem 5 | Poem 6

Jane Munro's works copyright © to the author.