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M a r g a r e t Y o u n g
A table piled with onions, knives.
Dark red cherries in vinegar, catching
a chunk of late sun from the window.
Out back, violins hide in hemlock
trees, shake them furiously, then
go all hush.
Up and down the stairs they go,
the sleepy mice, the sacks
of muddy lily bulbs.
Ghosts in the chimney doing standup.
Nobody warned us, one goes, we’d miss farting.
Breathing, sure. They crack each other up.
Oboes on the roof with metal pigeons.
Cellos in the cellar with beer.
In the middle of the living room, the grand piano
opens like a huge black oyster.
Michael Kriesel (ii)
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