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.

You're stuttering—Now
can your throat open to milk?

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