Andres Rodriguez Drawn Curtains

Great Depression clock,

maybe, dusty globe

with moon and stars cut

in glass. Or maybe

some older relic

with hellish faces

burned into the scene . . .

canons, sulfur clouds,

exiles from el sur.

It went north with her

across plains, mesas,

towns she couldn’t name,

then the bone-weary

winter arrival:

three-story white house,

blinking night tower,

coldest moon sending

its child into her.

She couldn’t learn its

salt language, too strange.

Then her first voice stilled,

could hardly be heard,

and fell below the

cellar, sleepless, shift-

ing until hauled up,

bedded and watched, drawn

curtains, crease of light.

The empty house smelled

thick with a presence

baked into the walls,

blurring the mirror.

She strained to hear its

fragile gears, frail tock,

but it kept quiet,

unbreakable thing,

as her time drained out.

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