- Whetstone
after the former custom of hanging a whetstone round the neck of a liar
This house burned numb. Someoneshould rub it warm if I willnot. I will not. Do I remember?the drowning man asks. The once us?his fish mouth begs. Ido. Vodka in the garage, I say,wine cabineted, secrets, and evenhis prone body, dead man’s float inthe TV’s rash of light. Anothercotton night. The clock keeps time.
Life like a frieze, and thereis no sound. Like a hearton-screen, pure mute, I growbeautiful: carved cold.My children mouth words. Theyspeak in black and white. I letthe lake take him, theirfather, his arms like two wings.I watch him sink down.
I am that hard. I donot extend my hand, do notstop him. The raft movesin waves. I watch. I am stone. [End Page 84]
I will mineral my ears—willnot curl in upon myself, but thinkin sculpted relief. I want tostep free, clear, to touchmy children’s brows like the sky’swinter blue. To cool with.To take my two children in my twosnow-perfect marble arms. [End Page 85]
Rebecca Dunham is the author of Glass Armonica, The Flight Cage, and The Miniature Room. Her poems have been published in The Antioch Review, Colorado Review, and AGNI. She is a professor at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee.