Trial of the Oblique Triangle: Building Permit #78
       

No mail-order kit—from fig leaves and wire,
a hunchbacked assembly of seven-fold wings.
Yes, we knew the blue-toed skink
would bite its lover’s digits off,
so in captivity we supervised,
and twice repaired the water pump
to flow our solid mile of trench.
But let the record show I never
swung that pickaxe without gloves:
the discipline of guilt demands precision.
Left over? Not one screw. At tea,
she stroked the neck feathers, impressed.
She served us tarts and handed us the pliers.
So much for tools. So much for cleverness.

Copyright © 2010 Dorine Jennette All rights reserved
from Urchin to Follow
The National Poetry Review Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission