Jennifer Clarvoe
LINING
Where was she? Tucked high
up under the tin roof,
the room half eave-closet
under the raining tin pellets,
the fine tines of rain. Not asleep.
Tiny pins continuing
past no particular view --
more particular. This is the mind's
right, this division. Even to
feed the full air
through the little eye-
javelin and grip-teeth
meticulously splitting
division into itself, its one
dimension, the line
we can't draw. It's not
that she is losing, but
there is no holding
her, nothing for her
to hold. If she could lift
the window these wires
would thread right through
and show no puncture.
There is a question
of pain. Or permeability
to question. Sometimes
the mind rains through,
its percussive this-es,
all its silver skewers
pins in a map
minutely displacing the map;
so not this, paper
obscure through the glitter.
She isn't here, but around
here, in a deep rain
disappearing.
Previously published in
Invisible Tender
Location: Ohio Email: Clarvoe@Kenyon.edu Publications: Fordham University Press, Raritan, Slate Book: Invisible Tender Awards: Kate Tufts Discovery Award
