Two Poems

Windows in Our Apartment

Single-paned, aluminum-framed, just plain old,
they whistle clatter in the smallest wind,
never shut tight. Still, when lights are on
they reflect our night—room corner
glowing in the pine outside, you say,
watch me place earrings on the table in the tree—
the lamp, my hands, the needles and cones.



Just a few years.
Time enough for some white
to thread my hair,
and the cat, once feral,
lets us knead her belly,
eyes shut.

It’s nothing yet,
and time’s clever—
we cannot see
our windows thin at the top:
glass drips slow
to thick at the sill.

And I wonder if you see
what slips in me—
salts leaching out
to pool at my feet
as I face you, open
and clean.

—Amy MacLennan, Ashland, OR