Guest House
A poem
If I try to remember
it’s the sun I see
Wet rope hung on painted clouds
Silent summer warmth in Child’s garden
I fell from the tree of winterberries
Mother is at the races tonight
Old girl shouts at the dirt
The house light glows through evening
Lying, I watch—
a cracked helmet tugs at my chin
a fallen trunk by the tinkling pond
I think of a black milk
as the night sinks
