Shadowlands
       

From three sides of the house unfold
pinewoods, domain of feral dogs.
The sound of pines, never a human call, returns

in the city when birds' shadows
cross above lintels.
Understand there is nothing

human inside, no secret self
beyond this memory of pinewoods
where no language

spoken could leave a shadow.
Once, as children,
mother's brother walked us to the family property's edge,

pinewoods meeting train track in winter light,
branched undertow of world, beneath
taproots and bedrock, down

to the place of original thirst.
He was drunk and in earnest.
When the glass fell from the shelf,

I knelt to gather the pieces,
swept up shards and slivered glints.
The room looked empty

in its new night cleanliness.
Don't
lean against me,
I am broken.

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Copyright © 2019 Claire Millikin All rights reserved
from Ransom Street
2Leaf Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission