Nests, secrets, and splintered floors

by | Oct 10, 2017 | Poetry


I stand at the edge
of this shattered house
grief thickening like
nests of hair, secrets
turning eyes to stone,

and I can’t begin to
decipher the strange
writing, the star charts
composed on crumbling
walls and splintered floors.

I don’t dare touch
the cracked foundation
with fingers of rain,
not knowing what I’d do
if it washed away.

We have all woken
frightened in the night,
listening to thick
drops of falling bees,
trying hard to blame

the lightning, when if
we’d waited until
morning we’d have seen
the design laid out
before us, the only
primer we need
to begin again.


Peter Grandbois is the author of seven previous books, the most recent of which is, The Girl on the Swing (Wordcraft of Oregon, 2015). His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in over seventy journals, including, The Kenyon Review, The Gettysburg Review, and Prairie Schooner, and have been shortlisted for both Best American Essays and the Pushcart Prize. His plays have been performed in St. Louis, Columbus, Los Angeles, and New York. He is a senior editor at Boulevard magazine and teaches at Denison University in Ohio.




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