By Emily Tuszynska
Featured art: Edward Mitchell Bannister (1828-1901)
The interior landscape shifts, erodes.
While the children sleep we shore it up
with flotsam but the next day another
tide-bitten chunk of coastline
crumbles. The trouble is we’re living
all at once. We keep rearranging the furniture
to try to make it fit. By day we push
aside the clutter, lay the baby
on the floor she drums with open palms
as if to feel it’s there. Something solid
underneath. Mostly everything sways.
A tree falls and the house next door
stands empty for years. The boy holds his sister
to the window and shows her how
to wave goodbye, and that’s the morning,
fingerprints in the dust of it. Outside the day
moves away in all directions. Streetlights
come on. When as I walk the baby the night train
whistles through its distant crossing,
why does it feel like we are the ones
hurtling toward some unknown destination?
I lean my forehead against the icy, rattling glass,
look through our reflection at the moon
rushing through branches. Look, there’s a farmhouse,
miles from the lights of any town. Someone
turns on a lamp in one of the windows;
someone stands there, watching us go past.
Emily Tuszynska lives in Virginia, where she teaches at George Mason University and raises three children. Some of her recent poems can be found in Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, The Georgia Review, The Southern Review, and Water~Stone Review.
Originally published in NOR 28