In the House North of Prospect Street, and: What Took Root
- In the House North of Prospect Street, and: What Took Root
In the House North of Prospect Street
Having seen a sudden shadow darkly shudder flat along the wall,
a mother’s fears quaver all day, lines scrawled across my forehead, creased
on my palms, my knuckles stiff.
When the daughter grown moved ninety miles away, my worry hid like stars at noon.
When she returns to her old room, she might stay out all night,leaving no word.
As light trembling through thin curtains makes a home for wavering trees,
the questions echo through me, collisions of what if, whatmight, worst-case silhouettes.
Wringing out the hours, a mother knows the not-sleep, turnseach ending over like a river stone.
Throw them back in the water. Plant them in the garden. [End Page 88]
Open those knotted hands.
Any night without rest ends hard. All the birds outside sing their solos,
each wing a shadow darkly flitting, quick shiver in my eye.
What Took Root
That I reap what I sow, I know,age-old adage like the woodworker’swork with the flaw, philosophy of saw and grainmy husband must practice when planing treesinto tables and chairs, yet kindly he turnshis good eyes blindto my yard of shotweed, nightshade, sorrel,my kitchen dripsand spatters, window streaks, our duston the mantle, fall tracked into the hallin this house we call home where I surrenderdaily to what flakes and fails—the paint, plaster, evenings couchedin tv light, gin and bitters, my glasshalf empty I fill untilthe clock’s hands scold my owngeneral lack of the manual,
when time was by hand I wooden spooned and pastry cut,whipped and whisked to soft peaks or stiff, knit by handthe past romantic, my aunt’s rooms of grandfather clockswhere in thick shadows I heard the hour chimethen chime again, time wandering through other people’s dreams, [End Page 89] time paring night’s apple, loosening its shiny seedsto plant my circadian lack of trust
or sleep, this body I call home becominga time bomb in my weakened fingers,convenience the fruitI bit, juice on my chinwhen I plug in the mixer, buy cheddargrated in a bag, lettuce triple-rinsed,dishes in the washer,and although it mostly goes unnoticedin our sun-to-sun-and-then-some slog,still I know I am my flawtumbled dry without pressingand neither mend nor darn,let slide what needs a good scrubbing,my knuckles knobby before their time,my clock a quarter hour off,another mistake to make and work with,another weed that could be called a flower. [End Page 90]
Joannie Stangeland is the author of several collections, most recently The Scene You See. Her poems have also appeared in New England Review, Boulevard, Southern Review, and other journals. Joannie holds an mfa from the Rainier Writing Workshop.
