Hannah Louise Poston



It tugs her like a bone from meat.
In the kitchen she's kneading, grating;
the window frames the street:

the north wind abating
from the sill, ash-black branches,
nearly-still leaves coruscating,

and the flock on the power-line prances
all morning in twos and threes.
She buckles her shoes, strolls, curtails her glances,

but it is there buckling her knees
in turn; it is another small
host of crows in the trees.

When it grows like smoke, filling all
the rooms, the stitched parrots seem
to caw

from the crewelwork, but nothing
is on fire—
the only trilling

is the bread timer,
the loaf is taut as a circus tent,
the knife clean as a wire.