The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Antonia Clark
The glass slips. The milk spills.
Everyday objects succumb
to flux and flutter.
The apples have developed a mania
for the pears. They loll and roll
together, thick as thieves.
The stockpot boils over. Bowls
borrow trouble and bottles wobble.
Forks set up a clatter, stage
a ceremony of unrest.
In the closet, coats conspire
against the old order.
And my intractable shoes,
those sturdy little anarchists,
go their own way, leaving me
no choice but to follow.
Pointing the Finger
I blame the nightly news and the night nurse.
I blame barges and barrels and the burning bush,
the broken branch and the broken promise.
I blame the apparatus of weather, the mechanics
of wind and rain. I blame every fire and flood.
I blame the stubborn mountain, the endless plain.
I blame crumbling brick and rotting wood.
I blame dust and doubt and duty, the sense
of lurking danger and the certainty of pain.
I blame lost articles and lost causes. I blame
upper hands, the over-modified, the self-
satisfied, the stages of grief, the wages of sin.
I blame the double bind and the cherished illusion.
I blame the weak heart, the strong medicine.
I blame the mirror. I blame the skin.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication