No One Sleeps at Our House

A few weeks ago, I got my contributor copy of Slant.  It's a great journal, thick with all sorts of literature.  I'm always pleased when they accept a poem of mine.

It's been awhile since I posted a poem here, so for your Monday pleasure, let me post the poem that was published in Slant.


Insomnia

 

No one sleeps at our house.
In the attic, the monks keep
their vigil; Psalms chanted
undergird the night.

The younger brother catalogs

the fish tanks and the ant farm.
The older brother conducts
experiments and charts the sky’s
passage through the hours.

The poet lights a single candle

and composes sonnets until dawn.
We can hear her counting
iambic pentameter as she paces.

One grandmother arranges flowers

and then resorts them.
One grandmother continues
her life’s project:  to attempt
every pie recipe that ever existed.

The choir performs concerts

complete with a string quartet.
We think the grass grows faster
with a musical accompaniment.

All the mothers and fathers are invited

to dance in the basement ballroom.
The bright chandeliers trick
the senses into believing time’s illusion.

And I pull the comforter close. 

I read stories from my youth:
of spunky girl detectives
with absent parents
or families on prairies
who build houses of sod
in just three days.