Pine
She opens her heart, a heart
full of needles
and stands at the sink
pulling flesh from bone.
She waits and watches
the broth for boiling
and wonders if
she'll see him again. He,
the stack of wobbly
coins. He, the train
shaking the rails. The pine
bent heavy with cones
whose boughs
reach down to sweep
the roof this morning as
she opens the door
and casts her hope
on the new snow, but
finds the tracks
on her threshold are stars
from raccoons
last night casing the house.
LAURA VAN PROOYEN
Our House Was on Fire
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