Nor Hell a Fury

I am the step that creaks.
The window that slams shut.
I am the one rought spot

on the smooth broom handle;
I'll lodge in your palm,
a stranger. I am the wrong perfume

in your hair. I am the rusty can.
The fishhook at the bottom
of the lake, and your foot

drifting down like a leaf.
Do you know how many
have ended this way—

crippled, one hand useless?
You think I'm nothing more
than mites in the cat's ear,

static crackling the phone. But
I'm the gasoline in the garage
and the cigarette you tossed. Darling,

when your wife wakes
as you creep into bed, I'm
the hush she doesn't recognize

announcing you like fanfare.

Copyright © 2004 Catherine Pierce All rights reserved
from Animals of Habit
The Kent State University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission