Wanda Waldera © 2014 All Rights Reserved

Still Life

Between the porch and the yard
one hundred chances to be hit by the rain—
between the house and the bay, one thousand,
and the fog tangles in the trees like hair in the tines of a brush.

Counting breaths to fall asleep,
I exhale nine-hundred-ninety-nine times
without using the letter A
for ah or aperture—in the Friday crossword,
two clues for “lets in light.”

All week the only sharp thing the snap
of the shutter eating the lake,
eating the wings in a V for vulture,
saying wake up, there is another A,
the A is for after. Shiver and sink this island in dimezone,
take our raincoats, our candles, these fists of light.

There are two glasses on the table,
one for knowledge, the other to forget
and which pool fills from the river?

In the tree, a hawk shifts foot to foot.
We’re looking now.
We’re looking upward.
The rain doesn’t know
our faces from the leaves.

Laura Marris
Copyright © 2014  

Laura Marris holds an MFA from Boston University. She is a winner of the Daniel Varoujan Prize from the New England Poetry Club, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Meridian, H.O.W., and The Wallace Stevens Journal. She teaches poetry at BU.

Table of Contents            Next Poem            Guidelines