Lindsey Webb
Illness
 

A good piano never
denies anything
like the clock always just
about to move. Between
the curtains and the open window
an evening space. A whisper
in the parlor is a fire
in the kitchen, an apple
turning the whole room
brown. I eat at the piano not
because I’m lonely but because I hate
to hear the dishes. Piece by
piece they crumble in the cabinets.
 



Ringer
 

Two kinds of misrepresentation: a closed
door, a full room. You in the center above
the mantel dressed up like a window. When
marbles roll around under the
couch I mistake them for thunder over
the dunes—white algae in a green
sea. My vision is full of corners
but the light here is round—
There are pinks and blues in my forehead—

I want not to be foolish. I
want to be rolled up in a glass sea,
fooled by doors out in the open, out
where everything falls
together and springs apart—

While I was gone, someone re-
placed my mirror with a watercolor—


 



Tack Room
 

            i enter first & you
follow in between the cedar
and the brushed coat—you furnitured
in cracked leather—you in
bursts along the wall, smoked
out by my glance after
dark—your spirits metal-
gripped & humming—curved
like an eyelidyou are
in your tools & your tools
are in me—i run the length
of the kitchen whinnying
all night—
 



About Lindsey Webb

Lindsey Webb studies literature at Brigham Young University. Her poetry has been published in ILK Journal, SOFTBLOW, and elsewhere.