Poetry from Web Del Sol
The Poetry of Joan Houlihan
Nothing So Stoic As a Child Done Early
Nettled over and backed against a marsh
of kept pools, you can see it from the train
whitened by evening and one light inside,
house to which you will come back.
You stood it for years. Filigree of gnat
and bad air, the waking absence of self.
In the cripple-fingered light, a few bees
squeezed between your screen
as you wound around each hand an urgent
maternal bandage. An accident.
can your throat open to milk?