A person could be at a loss. The width, spools and yardage, meringue
airs, impossible long fingers, of decorum. Its army sashay of the side-
walk. Iguana-eyed, left on stoop, no knock or ring. The small blue bruises
from wearing these hard tasteful heels. Like molasses in a dress going
down the stairs to answer. Because to lift the unbashful marble, ah it’s lit
differently, the arm would straighten. Door and doorbell taking on a low
religious typewriter drone. Stomach rot of rose milk and rubbing
alcohol. A person makes a habit of not knowing what to make of it,
as fact is, most days no door or invitation wants opening.
The table crowded with its nestled chairs. Eyes close at a glance.
Alison Powell’s poetry has previously appeared in journals including Black Warrior Review, AGNI, Puerto del Sol, New Orleans Review, Caketrain, Denver Quarterly, and others, and in the anthology Best New Poets 2006. She has been awarded fellowships from institutions including the Vermont Studio Center, Fine Arts Work Center, and Writers at Work conference.
