The Space on the Floor Where the Dog Lay
and I think I see a dark outline
his body's left, and picture crossing
through shadows, following him
from one vacated dream to the next.
He stretches and yawns
with all his teeth showing, obviously
something I admire.
Who watches me while I chase rabbits?
Who points and smiles?
Then whispers against my neck:
turn over, stop shaking,
the small beast is already caught.
How I Got Lost So Close to Home
Fear pushes me into the rowboat
and tells me how to row.
The oars are worn, bruised by the locks, poor handling, repetition, salt.
Meanwhile, my mother rolls out the crust for another apple pie,
pushing down on the widening circle. She's figured out
how to keep the dough from tearing, and I will learn this
from her, as with everything
else, through observation.
She's too busy for lessons. And I lose something in translation,
or distance. Is fear rolling pin or dough? Force or substance?
What transforms the room at night? What snuffs the lamps?
Fear says I do. We argue, but I keep rowing. I am in love with fear
and fear knows it. I want to
climb into fear's lap, unbutton his shirt,
put my face against his chest. I know it's warm there. Fear knows
I don't mean this, brays, shows yellow teeth to remind me
he's an ass. You expected Cary Grant, maybe? my mother asks,
shakes her head, wipes her hands on a dish towel.
I open the door and check the pie
so she can't see
how the light has gone out of my face. Wasn't it she
who introduced us? How could I imagine she'd want anything less
for me, anything other than the best? Fear smiles,
Now you're talking, he says, now we're cooking with gas.
