Five poems by Mel Bosworth

Shifting Constellations

fine
sand
where
the pool
once
sloshed
now
swallows
the heels
of
plastic legs
as
we
watch
campfire
television

laughing applause
—toppled bodies—
toes
point
to
delphinus

i
orbit
into
your
shoulder
where
i’m
not
meant
to
be

anymore

***

Chore

I scream down the well,
and at small things.
My sister wears
Mother’s old wig when
she
gets
that
way.

***

This Man I Know

When withered
Teeth no longer
Bite—
Chew, gums.

***

Secret Agent

My father is
going to celebrate his
sixtieth birthday
this year. He doesn’t look
a day over forty-five.
“Agent Orange,” he says.
I’m not sure
I like that
joke.

***

Brace

Her arms were broken.
The house pulled
its breath. Beams
groaned, threatened.
The bathwater
molded around her throat,
a liquid yoke.
Somewhere a bird
fell from its nest.
Somewhere a man
counted the seconds
at a stoplight.
Somewhere a room
kept its
balance.
The children held
the walls up
with their imaginations.

More poetry at Used Furniture.

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