Caroline Klocksiem

Sleeping by the stove

Margaret simmers her beef bone stock.
December is no calming angel,
Winter is no white repose.
Margaret moves the mattress to the stove.

Rex and Hester catch larks in their sleep.
My girl gets pushed by scrawny paws for birds long gone,
My daughter with a nightgown full of slender dogs for warmth.
Rex and Hester in the kitchen with my huddled family sleeping out the storm.

December shoots a dirty snow through the cracks of our home.
The fire cracks red, coughing on twigs and Thistle bits.
Tired fire chokes up embers, chokes up in shapes of stripes and stars;
December’s hollow windows, forsaken and forsaking charms.

Dear Mister President, what problems do you expect to solve?
I can’t tell tonight if it’s far-off train howls I hear for miles or
Poor folks and gales traveling more and more west to try their luck?
Your six children’s soft hands, the ease of their vast separate beds …

 

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