perfect triangle

it was something we were trying to put together . . .
—it was a skylight, shattered into a million pieces.

friends arrived, the door was open. no, the door was
not open. the door was gone 
and we were exposed.
we got up from the couch. the door was gone, but no
one came inside. we met on the sidewalk instead. 
they had seen the papers. we laughed.

it was something we were trying to put together . . .
—it was a washboard, the kind you see in museums.

there was a beautiful lake and we walked across it.
reeds grew around us, pressing closer, tighter
with each step. shoots from wild oaks. it made no sense. 
they encased us. there were warnings 
from a small owl. it plunged our way, in utter ecstasy. 

it was something we were trying to put together . . .
—it was a fork, in the road.

the mist came slowly over the hill, we were to understand, 
every day. the road was soft instead of firm, which made 
our work harder. space was shrinking. the wandering girl knew this 
instinctively. she had them break the couch in two 
to get it out of the room.

it was something we were trying to put together . . .
  —it was a ship, in a bottle. 

the summer wore on. we grew our bangs and drank old
whiskey, knocked about in graveyards, under the moon, under stars,
amidst the cornfields, higher, higher, all standing together,
in rigid rows.

SUSAN STILES

Susan Stiles lives in and writes about Croatia. Her poetry has appeared in such journals as The Lake, The Dalhousie Review, Innisfree, Storyscape, and Antiphon. More info, including her blog Letters from Rab, is at susan-stiles.com.