By Susan Barba
Looking up, “The purple now,” she dips
her brush and finishes the day. The flag
descends. She draws the fire with a marker
on fax paper uncurling from its spool.
Inventory of glasses, the handblown ones
blue-edged could hold a sunset neat, the new
regime is softball-sized and etched with tigers.
In town they’re pulling draughts for every swinging
door. Don’t get angry, don’t get angry.
The soaker’s washed and left to dry. Iron
Hessians oversee the fire gone
to bed beside the harbor, geese calling
each to each triangulate the dark.
Passing through or are they wintering over?
In chevron resolve. Like waking to
the rain and walking anyway. She
thinking of what to do with pawpaw jelly,
he of mildew and of marrow, while
their youngest bouncing gums the leather dice
cup, sister rolls, counts, and makes
a point. Get even says the horizon
like the sun, democratic and unsparing.