Rachel Contreni Flynn

THE VIOLET ROOM

Small bird in the rafters.

Book buried in the hay bales.

Harness rotting at the door.

The days after my daughter’s birth
I spent reading Hemingway in bed.

Black flies roosted at the screens
and the afternoons were bright: silence

blasted in and I held still in the violet room
at the edge of town. If there was damage,

I curled away from it. If there were words,
I buried them. My flesh was sheepskin,

in the service of another. Night came
as crying, quiet as breath. I quit the book

when the old man failed to cut down
the stars with his capable hands.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
Tribute to Lawyer Poets