The Tiniest Child
I found her in the fireplace ashes,
the tiniest child you’ve ever
seen. I keep her
by me, in a matchbox bed.
Some mornings
she wakes so slowly
my breath stops.
Before sleep she tells
me things only the dead know.
She tells me I am
a giant with an immortal heart.
She tells me I remind her of God.
***
In This Place where Similes Lie Around like Unused Rhymes
I step into the room
like a glove coming off.
Light falls like sleet.
The woman I married,
a good right cross,
is absent like a tooth.
The clock turns once and
then shuts down.
I make myself available to
you, like vulgar air.
***
One Afternoon
Patty came home and her
mother was gone. Her
dog had eaten her dinner.
A note taped to the TV
read: Your hamster’s dead.
Don’t touch the paregoric.
Daddy’s bowtie wiggled down
the hall toward her. All the
beds were full of melons.
In the bathroom the faucet played
Ravel. The toilet was full
of tadpoles. Patty sat down
and started her first period.
***
Jen in Oregon
She wears cowboy boots
and short skirts. She
can scry the blues. She
tells me her man left her,
moved to another city, one
without her. She is beautiful
like necessity, young desire.
I write her a poem because
a poem is brittle and spiky.
She says she is sad now, a
moon over her black pool,
a reflection of a reflection.
I tell her I am nervous. I tell
her the poem will break down.
She is funny, too, and smart.
She writes little stories that
sting. She sings, too, long
into the morning, the sun be-
hind her like a made-up mirror.
This is Jen, Jen in Oregon.
More poetry at Used Furniture.
