Today's poem is by Brian Henry


The day, that open sore, refusing to heal into night,
we hole up in the corner of the cellar, a pit of clay
tilting up at each side.
                              The water heater awake despite
the absence of bodies in the house (there is no need),
it builds, then boils, and the air around slides toward itself
(as if air has self) and dips below the floor above (nails
dangling) to sweep us from where we're crouched, afraid
the house will lift and spin across the sky like metal
wagon wheels breaking in the sidewalk.
                                                          Water cooks, would pool.
You weep into my hands at the wind's first rush.
                                                                    We feel
the pull from without, the slip in pressure that precedes the fall.
See the drop descend to hang then rise, to rescind, return.
The water will rust, the clay, the red, will swallow us
as the windows withdraw and the rafters (but not the nails) burn.

Copyright © 2005 Brian Henry All rights reserved
from Southwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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