Mary Biddinger Heaven And Its Choppy Water

I felt better on a lake as if
otherwise something was missing
like the time we baked with oil
instead of water or tried to trim
the lawn with kitchen scissors.
We owned two lamps and had to
carry them from room to room
like torches. We smelled of Borax
or spider webs, our house mostly
attic space with curtains for doors,
and we’d play a game with friends:
who could sprawl across the bed
then touch all four walls at once.
One time a squirrel sat on the stove
and we just watched. One day rain
coasted under the locked door.
I was either waiting to arrive or
to leave. All night two red beads
on a string slapped their wasp
concert against the screen.


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