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