by Rachel Hinton

Absent, my mother pours between the talking
on the screened porch, where the aunts discuss art.
The fan takes paper, collects minor likings
that I should, too. But I don’t care: I let
her being gone ease this for me, so there
can be a river to things, underneath.
Flea markets are talked about, a clutter
and crowdedness of taste I don’t like. (Pith
rotting, tented by the smell of aerosols.
The fan blows irritants across the chair.
Old calcium carbonate sloughs from a clown
made of driftwood and uneven lacquer.)
Without these, I will care. Instead I wait
for a lover, excused while they circulate.
My clear wish paints itself between their news
which—for now, to me, only passing—moves.

*Photo courtesy dorena-wm.