Her Indoors
 
The TV screen is black
with swallowed-back words.
The ornaments are deadpan.
The corner of the rug curls.
 
Next door, a cuckoo clock
and the evening’s last banter.
The corner of the rug curls.
The cold pipes clatter.
 
A leaf floats from the yucca,
the corner of the rug curls,
a voice from a family photo
shatters the world,
 
the corner of the rug curls,
and empty cups sit as silent
as buoys that wash up
on an island.

Nina Parmenter
 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nina Parmenter  would be pleased to hear them.