Stirring : A Literary Collection

Jennifer Clarvoe


Where was she? Tucked high
up under the tin roof,
the room half eave-closet
under the raining tin pellets,
the fine tines of rain. Not asleep.
Tiny pins continuing

past no particular view --
more particular. This is the mind's
right, this division. Even to
feed the full air
through the little eye-
javelin and grip-teeth

meticulously splitting
division into itself, its one
dimension, the line
we can't draw. It's not
that she is losing, but
there is no holding

her, nothing for her
to hold. If she could lift
the window these wires
would thread right through
and show no puncture.
There is a question

of pain. Or permeability
to question. Sometimes
the mind rains through,
its percussive this-es,
all its silver skewers
pins in a map

minutely displacing the map;
so not this, paper
obscure through the glitter.
She isn't here, but around
here, in a deep rain

Previously published in
Invisible Tender

Location: Ohio
Publications: Fordham University Press, Raritan, Slate
Book: Invisible Tender
Awards: Kate Tufts Discovery Award

Stirring : A Literary Collection

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