Poetry and Domestic Life


When I have nothing left to give I yawn and sit in my stuffed chair. The unread
books on the coffee table begin sighing. I don’t know what to do about the dog.
My daughter comes in with a book of poems. The chimney poem tells the story of
smoke. The sky poem stretches the truth. I tell her the mother poem is really part of the
father poem, which is really part of something else. I tell her the gravity poem is not that
important. I tell her to ask the nose poem what it does for a living. I tell her about knee
poems, how they dangle a clutter of bone and muscle rope, waiting for stray kisses. I tell
her at the end of my hair poem I will begin to shine.
My daughter sleeps. In the dark beneath my broken kneecap I walk in a forest of
bone trees. Somewhere deep inside, something familiar, a porchlight.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.