My mother hobbles through the door,
it is Sunday but today hasn't happened yet,
there is a bluebird dying in a cherry tree
next to my window, its feathers are loose
revealing wrinkled skin. This bird,
which is also not a bird, is still dying
but at times, when my mother hobbles
past the window to get water,
the sunlight clouds it like tiny people
made of light stepping over the ocean
and it is set free.
Finding ourselves alone in a house we begin to discover
tiny openings everywhere. We walk into the kitchen
and notice not the fridge, but the hole inside of the fridge.
We take off our boots, our pants, our shirt,
we don't want to go clothed
inside the belly of the beast,
and once inside we smell old candles.
We do not question this, but shut the door knowing
once inside, we cannot push ourselves out again
no matter how much we vary.
Kallie is the editor of mojo magazine & Kenning journal. Her poems have appeared, or will appear, in PANK, Paper Darts, ILK, Menacing Hedge, Deluge, Zymbol, and The Dirty Napkin.