Strings of white Christmas lights
A figure in the window, blurred, braless
Why shouldn’t I be—
My figure in the window
I dreamt I had
A daughter
A blur
I remember now
I miss her
*
I lose my keys in this house
Sand collects on the bedspread
My husband picks burrs off the dogs
Off our socks, the bathmat
Blue paint edges
The window in the bedroom
The shades go up
Go down
I’m at a loss
*
I sauté
We eat quietly
Piling dishes he’ll do later
In the sink
A whole day
Like this
On the brink
*
The white dowel that twists
Open the white blinds
Is swinging
Back & forth
A cold current enters
I moved it didn’t I
*
Unfolded for a week, the clothes
Hold their wrinkle
Another petal falls
From last year’s flower crown
I’m alone now
The dogs snoring
One song on repeat
Till evening
Emma Winsor Wood writes/teaches/edits/runs in Santa Cruz, California with her husband and their two dogs. She has received fellowships from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and the Napa Valley Writers’ Conference. Recent poems have appeared in Salamander, Bat City Review, The Seattle Review, and BOAAT, among others.