Thursday, February 09, 2017

Poetry Thursday

Seven Years

These cold days when the insane sky’s clear, heat poofs away 
beyond its net of edible blue. My cat folds, flops across the 
laundry steps. Flags the size of jeans pockets flip-flap affixed 
to rowhouse fronts. The nicest, cleanest hands reach to switch out lights in stores: futons, ring trays, eyeglasses, dresses, go dark. “The bed is not very big.” Cold or no there are fathers calling mothers and children walking home or out; also those of us who are neither father nor mother and have forgotten the complicated unchosen knits and methods of being somebody’s child. Hires Root Beer signboard creaking, then not creaking. This year Thanksgiving dinner begins in the afternoon: a moist bird, venison stuffing. Window glass goes blue-indigo. “Is this the right crockery?” Cold little birds, like knots of twine, jam the Japanese Zelkova just outside, gabble in the light-loss hysteria. The Dow Jones dropping. Friends’ kids leer from photos I stuck on the refrigerator. Last night I slammed a door so hard the
mirror hung on it shattered over my back. I was not hurt; moreover he stopped shouting back, ran in his socks onto the crackling glass, put his arms around me?


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