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.