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    Narrow Elegy for 39 

     

    by Jill Khoury

     

    There is a direction in time by which spilled milk does not go back into the glass

              – “Introduction to Entropy” (Wikipedia)

     

     

    I don’t know

    who to call

    when it rains

    through the ceiling

    fleck fleck

    or all the gas

    burners set

    themselves alight

    a flock of

    mottled geese

    on the back

    slope their heads

    swivel they talk

    to each other

    telepathically

    hiss a warning

    when I approach—

    I retreat I don’t

    know who to call

    when the longcase

    clock in the den

    starts creeping

    backwards second

    by second

    the cherubs

    around the face

    turn wicked

    with frowns and

    tiny claws

    I put my useless

    ear to the tower

    the pendulum beats

    rhythmic as ever

    though everything

    is wrong a commotion

    in the chimney

    thirtynine swallows

    plummet          into the

    fireplace sending up

    clouds of ash

    I bend to look

    all dead I wrap

    my hand around

    one dusty body

    and lift it—so light

    and the bill

    like an owl’s

    snubbed and wide

    not what I

    thought

    nothing today

    is what I

    thought

    and I don’t

    know which

    experts can fix

    this it rains harder

    water mixes

    with ash to

    make mud

    and the bird

    bodies float

    over the hearth

    and into the lap

    of my skirt

    I scream and

    jump back

    the kitchen

    is ablaze—sour

    plastic smell

    from cheap

    utensils melting

    the plaster

    sags in pockets

    from the ceiling

    like so many

    small breasts

    and I don’t

    feel so well

    and I won’t

    dine or

    rest or

    enjoy

    a fire any-

    time soon

    out the window

    a light snow

    begins to

    fall

     

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