Part tea party, part fog in the firs
crowding the shore. The thorn pig advanced,
pork in the pines.
On the porch, Isabella practiced piano for one hand,
her other hand wrapped in a boa, a fluffy flight-
feathered mitt.
Tea and the pitfalls of town, then the conversation
collapsed into an arresting presence.
A backward glance. The dove of her life
fast evaporating into impossibility.
You’re funny, aren’t you. I always said you were funny.
The dogwood blossoms rose up to meet
the crack under the wall sconce.
From the hallway, a dangerous draft. The unfinished
business of seduction. A flat face in a mirror
framed by prettiness, flame-pink piece of paradise
pleasing the eye but never addressing the why
this why that. In isolation, of course,
. . .
there was purification. The child played
well in spite of a directional malady, loud for soft;
hard for adagietto. The thorn pig advanced, rooting
in a nexus of needles, its pinched face mirrored
in a latent puddle. What does Narcissus see
in that little disk?