January 10, 2009

Ars Poetica: Married Version

A white chip of moon rules the sky
          as I pad softly across the driveway,
open the door of my house, and step in.
          Weaving through whisking thumps
of the dog's tail, scattered crayons
          and dolls, I make my way
past the door of my daughter's room,
          and into the kitchen where the coffee maker
is making its final gurgles. I pour a hot cup,
          add cream, and stir. From here,
at this early hour, my study is no longer
          a garage. Its lighted window
looks more like the back of a bronze chariot
          drawn by winged, see-through horses,
and that pulsing drone is an echo
          of a distant horn, and not the refrigerator.
Is that what she sees from this vantage at the sink
          when I am writing and framed in that light?
Am I a clever, leaf-crowned god stroking his beard
          and stitching the void with electric lines?
Or, as she's scrubbing dried egg
          from a plate, twisting a can opener,
does she see something else? A beast, perhaps,
          obsessed with writhing every morning
in its own shit, hairy, helpless, and beyond itself
          under the great and glowing bone in the sky?

—Derek Sheffield

Posted by dwaber at January 10, 2009 02:52 PM