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Chunk of Sea Glass
Becky I’m typing this in your study.
It’s a rainy fall day and for some reason
I want to type “you’re in Japan” and
don’t know where your man and kid are.
Man and kid feels a little crass but
it’s okay because I’ve let myself into
your house and I’m weak, and drunk, and
a little hungry, looking at a sizable chunk
of blue-green sea glass here on your desk,
considering the weight it exerts upon the desk
and the desk’s equal (inverse) force upon its base.
A thunderstorm’s just passed through,
I type that. And one of your windows
is cracked slightly—the study sips the balmy
air. The room smells like old books.
There’s a red wig on a wig rack,
a heavy black stapler that feels like a pistol,
a water glass with an inch of water in it.
Soon Becky I will recline in your recliner,
your cat sprawled on my abdomen,
making it difficult to nap. But I’ll nap.
And when I wake I’ll still have the house
to myself I am sure. And all the browns
and beiges and burnt mustards of your study
will resume again their quiet work on me,
coaxing me along on my journey without you
(who may or may not be in Japan), your man
or your kid.
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Michael Earl Craig’s most recent (of six) books of poems are Woods and Clouds Interchangeable and Iggy Horse. He has published poems in various magazines, journals, and anthologies—Poetry, The Believer, The New Yorker, and Best American Poetry (2014, 2022) among them. He was Poet Laureate for the State of Montana (2015-17) and a Civitella Ranieri Foundation fellow (2021). He lives near Livingston, Montana, where he shoes horses for a living. [Author photo by Susan Thomas.]
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Heinrich Campendonk, Sitzender Mann mit Katze, 1919 .