14 March 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 1
The little mouse has claimed the kitchen, spread out like a rind,
and under the cedar beam is you: a tent, sturdy as that—with people through the slit
that mimics a shy face in profile
determined not to full-on. A lamp dubs its light a little off—it lays across the window
like a head. Where are your lips
that lapse into a stage for the slender dialect
acting a derelict—who let the space with so much knocking,
and let it loosen into rot.
You cross the room like an amen a chest. An amen
choked in the hull of the bulb. I am tired of the museum, of whoever
in our backyard cares
about the lung-black plaques enough to read them. Your chisel, if you are missing it.
The gallows we're too happy
beneath, where I haul you with my calling.
I call you—inside. That, and dear, and how the clothesline smalls this place
into a globe
where you point and pushpin been, and labels strewn with dates—your pens
I've moved under the mattress like the sound the bedsprings make.
About the author:
Kristi Maxwell's poems have recently appeared in Spinning Jenny, No Tell Motel, and Denver Quarterly. She currently teaches a workshop and seminar entitled "Poetics of Relentlessness" at Casa Libre en la Solana in Tucson.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Kristi Maxwell at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 6, No. 1, where "Though" ran on March 14, 2006. List other work with these same labels: poetry, editors' select.