October 14, 2011

Kathleen Walsh Spencer

FIRST FROST

we don’t know where the dog slept last night
the temperature fell below 32
she did not have her winter coat yet
the door closed behind her

the temperature fell below 32
we’d protected our plants from frost
the door closed behind her
we turned the thermostat up

we’d protected our plants from frost
covered with cotton sheets
we turned the thermostat up
tucked our daughter into bed

covered with cotton sheets
up late on a school night
tucked our daughter into bed
we did not hear any cries

up late on a school night
awake at 6, dazed and stiff
we did not hear any cries
our dog stood shaking at the back door

awake at 6, dazed and stiff
frost between the pads of her paws
our dog stood shaking at the back door
we lay along side her to warm her

frost between the pads of her paws
as our daughter’s alarm clock shrills
we lay down along side her to warm her
You’ll need your hat and mittens today

our daughter’s alarm clock shrills
You’ll need your hat and mittens today
she does not have her winter coat yet
we don’t know where the dog slept last night

from Rattle #26, Winter 2006

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September 14, 2008

Kathleen Walsh Spencer, MSN, RN, MA

HER BROTHER’S PICKHOLE

He still wounds himself every day
for five decades now,
breakfast till bed, his index finger
spins tight circles at a spot
on his crown the size of a Cheerio.
Hunched over pancakes, driving
the toll road, typing with one hand,
the left hand always returns to his scalp,
elbow, wing of crow,
picking from road kill.

At fifty-five, hair wild and thick, he picks,
picks, then smoothes gray tufts
over the hurricane.

Half a country away,
she sees him in his easy chair, newspaper
spread on his lap, dog at his feet. Wounding.
Do dreams calm the fury?
Does a tentative scab lay down
in his sleep?

from Rattle #28, Winter 2007

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