I’ve got crumbs of old books,
A fence, white, a thumb, paint—
It sounds like construction next door
It’s church, it’s jack rabbits and
The dead dandelions have
Turned into moons.
We will do the laundry, even
The bed sheets, and dream
Of sailors. Our religious lives
Have been grouped like vines
And before the days dream
Catches on a fence, we find
St. Mark.
We’re chess, we’re teapots,
We’re friends at middle age
With mouths, with shallow pockets
We read recipes starting at noon
Once an hour, times four
With a branch and a bell
This is a method we excel at.
For a week? A decade? We sound
Like and move as if in a fish-tank
With heartbeats like super heroes
With grammatically incorrect echoes
Mamma’s mailing sailboats and bibles
From Belgium and beyond. Finally, a curse.
-- Ashleigh Allen
