from THE BIRD ARTIST
At first, we sat down for dinner at seven.
Our own little heaven filled with tea cakes and waterfowl.
The best china from the best places. My grandmother's linens
brought over on a sunken ship and tucked beneath her coat
while others drowned around her. They still smelled like the sea
when the wind was right, blowing on the line. Still harbored her fear,
damply rowing toward a distant shore. I would lie them out on the bed
and live inside them for awhile in the afternoons, while the flies
flicked at the window screens and the children played in the tub.
Each spot, so carefully rubbed out, but so much death woven into the cotton,
the taper of lace. At night, it would undo us, send us falling through sheets
of white and and into dark water. No matter how much we washed them,
they'd get caught in our throats. The boats too far off in the distance to save us.
(switching gears today to something else. I may return to the Walter Potter stuff near the end of the month, but I woke today with this little bit in my head, so we'll see where she goes.)
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