Sunday, January 11, 2015



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. 

Our House Was on Fire 

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