Window

Liver and onions, potato salad, bologna sandwiches…these were the things we called “dinner.” Our dog, Lunch, never came when called. I’d stand on the stoop at twilight and shout until I sounded like pack-a-day Uncle Jay, but still, my homework never got done. I did math homework to Led Zeppelin because I never intended to be a mathematician.

“What makes you think you’re going to college, girlie?” I swung my fist at the captain of the girls’ swim team. My tooth I put under my pillow that night.

While I slept, a gondola bumped against the bedroom glass. Leaving through a window isn’t like leaving through a door. The stars were teeth in a shark’s mouth and I was hungry to be devoured.

Before summer porch nights with beer and a lightning storm, before the man I married, the children I didn’t raise, and the jobs I could not quit, there was:

Fire in the sky, a long demon exhale and I was riding it the whole way, holding on for life was dear and I would pay. I could not fall for the falling. Where poems could be.

This is a reprint of work originally published in Le Mot Juste.

Priya Keefe’s work has appeared on a Dublin lamppost, in Seattle buses, and in Seattle City Council meetings. It has been spied in Five:2:One, The American Journal of Poetry, Outlook Springs, and elsewhere.

This entry was posted in Poetry, Reprint and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Window

  1. Those are beautiful words, but the meaning isn’t clear to me. Is that the words or me?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.