It is a day that glimmers like the inside
of a fairy tale, one whose sky
is the color of a dented cauldron that won't
stop boiling and boiling so every
street in every town floods with oatmeal
or molasses dark as mud. You promised
to remember. It has been a day, no, several
days now. The animals have fled through
the torn brambles. People watch as houses
topple: their chicken legs bow in the swell
of water, and windows fold like postcards
on a revolving rack. A voice the size of an acorn
comes out of the dark. What will you surrender—
your comb, your pillow, your blue thread and needle?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
