Twelve spires, held taut, landscape receding, giving way
to brick, to fire, to the crawl of car on concrete, that sound
of tire against gravel, a kind of consumption here too.

Between, strung yarn, Christmas bulbs, oriental poppies.
Little folded gifts: receipts in plastic bags.

We could strum it all like a harp, catch in our teeth
the song as it rises, we could push and pull against horizon
and let it all settle around us, the fire out, nothing left
but presents and ash.

Consider this: a placeholder
for the broken line
of tables, your gnarled knuckle
pushing away the crumbs
and detritus. Every day
there's a new mark,
fork in hand, the carving
away, and you dine alone
because that's how it's been
for thirty eight years, tethered
to this bench-line, and outside
the window, you see it:
the flash of underbellies,
seabirds in flight.

Image: Beth | Poem: Molly

Axis

The day they found the lump, I bought a cake,
maraschino cherry tucked in white froth
at the center of thawing black frosting.
I could feel it, a small burning pit
measured six inches above, lilting right of the axis.
I count this day in footsteps--from bakery to car,
to library, to market, and back again,
beneath round things: hanging flower baskets,
the shadowy bluffs in the distance, the bulb
of treetops, the quick threat of clouds.

Everything's shape is muted in the wind.
A blizzard propelled through the weekend, the cake forgotten,
cooling in the refrigerator, brave knife ready.