by Lindsay Illich

Low as the heart’s low
     thrum, dark as moon wink.

The camp of mind, as dust
     losing its place in the caste
   of mystery. Recall the piano bench,
a door jamb, losing
all taste for living here.

The little house in a row
     of little houses forgets to mean.

The middle life of books
     and paperclip, a diaper’s
          heavy weight, the dog’s bowl
               always empty again.

Dram of aspirin, hum
of appliance, awl. Winterness
a carved carbuncle of January.

Like a splinter, this isn’t where
we were supposed to be.
Like errata, then waking up again,
kneeling at the coffeemaker,
bargaining with what gods will listen.


Calendary – Lindsay Illich


Lindsay Illich teaches writing at Curry College in Milton, MA. Her work has recently appeared in Improbable Worlds: An Anthology of Texas and Louisiana Poets.

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