Poetry

Doorknob Glimpse

Specks of tarnished

Brass shield glints

Of my reflection.

My eye is drawn

To where I

Can’t be seen.

My image, distorted

In the curves,

Stretched like a funhouse

Mirror, squashed

Into a foreign form

In the lock.

From fractures

I see a peek

Of what I’m not,

And who I may be.

The lock twists,

Clicks. Open.

Between

Out of body,

Froze.

I breathe in.

The branches sift clumps down

To the glimmering sheetrock layers

Of snow crusting over the grass.

We break the seal

Between the two.

In the creaking silence

Tree hands sweep

For me, but

I remain calm.

I hide within

The wisps

Of my exhalation.

The wide “X”

Of the wooden fence

Defines what should

Be boundaries,

But snowflakes and I

Slip through the gaps

That allow escape

And entry.

Chocolate Pie

On our red cookbook

Flour dust crusts

From the taste

Written in the pages

That we try to

Pour into our glass pie pan.

Mom shows me how:

Pinch, spin, then press.

The dough walls up.

Can’t let it fall,

Set at three-hundred degrees.

Don’t let it stick.

Eggs can’t be cooked.

Circle scrape-scrape circle.

Ready the roux.

Cream pie, lump-free.

County steady now:

Two times, up to sixty.

She stirred in stories,

Melted away years

With the chocolate.

A freckled hand

Still guides me.

Her doodles, blue

Hints in the margins, silly before,

Now seem perfect

As I try alone.

Late Night Calls

Submerged in layers of papers and quilts until

the abrupt whirring of his call causes

assignments to cascade to the carpet.

I slide out into the prickling numbness, sneak

along the baseboards to avoid the floor’s moans.

Burrow behind the marble-top and fold

into the spinning office chair. Listening

to his voice,

and for ones above.

Crackling vision in the fluttering dusty bulb

as my laughter strikes and jerks

my knees into me.

My shifting reveals my silhouette.

I am aware of myself, exposed.

Choppy exhales contain

thoughts that clot, straining over riddles

in wispy voices. Wearing walls away,

and disguising miles between us.

I return to calculated tones,

and trop back into my wits.

Nestling deeper within the revolving polyester,

hidden where only he can be found.