Painting by Pamela Heater
Emanations
In the basement of The Manor
an old anemometer
wheezes to life,clicking as the brittle needle
waits for a breath of wind
to set the machinery stuttering,while upstairs, resident's rooms
go silent —the early birds to bed
though the night owls are awakebehind curtains pulled against
darkness, as blue TV auras
seep out the edges and pressurizedhiss/hum of oxygen tanks reassures,
even as tomorrow's obituaries
are being posted —but for now we are all alive
waiting for our souls
to move the needle.
Waiting for the Light
A group of young men gather
in oily pools of lamplight,
heads burrowed under
the hood of a Mustang
like beetles at a corpse.I used to know the sound
of a 289—the throaty roar
of your reluctant exit, your late
night drive-bys, headlights
raking my darkened rooms.Now the men are performing
a ballet of tinkering. They
plunge their hands inside
the darkness, touching spark
plugs, wires, ignition.You thought you could fix me,
tune me to your specifications.
But I wouldn't be fixed. I was
just idling until I could
slowly accelerate away.
