St. Andrews Day
Once the house has emptied
of its birds, the water holds
the shape of her. Buckets,
bathtubs. A landscape of rusted
locks and falling brooms.
She counts fourteen fence posts
and finds a knothole big enough
for her wrist. Melts the Sunday
candles in her mother’s best
kettle and still nothing.
Last night Ava and Anna
must have hidden the red scarf
beneath the breakfront.
The husband game,and each
of them a ribbon, a rosary.
Nothing under her plate but its shadow.
