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The Softest Gossip
by Allison Adair
the softest gossip you’ll ever hear
(oh, honey)
when the storm grows too quiet she taps on her head.
the lights gurgle; her hands check the bed for pennies.
(spell it out, pepper)
stairwell rot, that tender wooden spoil (well) she takes the mold
up
up to break over a ceramic bowl.
(when will she learn)
the swell is a tightly drawn cloud, she is weary
from the weight of the floor. age six, she buried a rabbit
with a spoon.
why the bulbs are covered
with foil, the smell of milky green
stalks, extra-wide like smoke-mouth. tulips the most
broken
and how the
river, too, braids to one color--
damp casts out her lambent chalk, deep rocks drenched with moss,
rippling
silver shards for one last flash
(the matinee resumes its hush)
