by Stephanie Powell

there is our front room
the grey-green chair that rocks, its soft fabric
light from the router turns her
face blue, a strange torch in those new eyes
                                        hey, hey, hey,
i hush to my baby. My baby as though i could
own her. she mistakes the hope of a pinky finger
for nipple and bears down with all that suck.
she has a storm rolling over her face
she is working on real tears. real floodwater.
when she does another tie between us
will be snipped loose
                   hey, hey, hey,
tomorrow we will be put back to the kiln
the climate flummoxing, still warm in autumn
the house cooling as
she draws heat from my skin
from its hot mantle of underlayers, the flesh we shared

balanced on a screw, always turning,
how does time work now we are
always awake, never free from the
feeling of everything, so wild and teetering?