Clear matters darken, white moons circle on
the vast glowing dome closes in
upon pools that glimmer with mud.
Changed, you look up from the water,
pale wrists reaching up to sallow moon faces.
In April they called you the hyacinth girl
narrow feet fast on the paths
foxes of hair, quick glimmer of eyes.
Your glittering face calls on from the pond
black stars held tight in your hands.
Federica Santini lives in Atlanta, Georgia. A literary critic, poet, and translator, her work has appeared in over twenty journals in North America and Europe, including Autografo, The Ocotillo Review, JIT, il verri, and Snapdragon among others.