by Lisa Norris

Things are a-shambles–scatter
of dishes, dog-chewed Kleenex on the floor,
weeds tossing their seeds to the wind
which is relentless, and not much juice
to fire up the old engine. Meanwhile,
new models turn heads on the road,
their shiny hoods glistening as I cast
my mind back to sepia days
when I could pretend sleep
and have someone lift me out
of the car and take me to my bed
and kiss me. I once had paper
of pink roses on the wall, and a high window
to look out from. Someone else
had the key to the door: parents
who kept out intruders. Now I drink
my coffee alone, no kids to protect in the house,
no locks on the doors, just the breeze pushing
things around, making the tall grass bow
and filling the air with its marvelous whispering.

Lisa Norris’s two prize-winning books of fiction are Toy Guns (Helicon Nine Press, 1999) and Women Who Sleep With Animals (SFASU Press, 2010). Her poems, stories, and essays have appeared in Poet Lore, Smartish Pace, Shenandoah, Fourth Genre,, Ascent, and others. She taught at Virginia Tech for 15 years and lives in Ellensburg, Washington, where she is a professor of English at Central Washington University.

Copyright 2018, Lisa Norris

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