Corrie Williamson
In Every House the Same Blue Flame
Blood on the rug, the hardwood,
the white vinyl kitchen tile,
and I can hardly stand the gentleness
with which the dog lets me roll
him to his side, inspect his paws’ webbing.
The age-old problem: his joy
is my joy, the jaunty steps, nose
raised to wind, bearing the cold
indoors on his coat into my hands
which stroke that black gloss, proud
of the life in which he is no longer beaten
with socks full of coins. Meanwhile
the yard draws up glass after rain
like spring crocuses. History’s shrapnel―
ghosts of old inhabitants buried
with the crockery. My friend calls, my hands
full of stained red towels, darkness now
in her time zone, recalls her high school job
at the carwash next to Oakey’s
Funeral Home, where they burned the dead
on Tuesday mornings. The scent. The dog
is fine, patrolling the rooms without
a limp and licking the bright tiles
where I wiped away his blood.
[Note: the title of this poem is taken from a line in Chad Davidson and Marella Feltrin-Morris’ translation of Fabio Pusterla’s “Star, Meteor, Some Shooting Thing.”]
Corrie Williamson is a recent graduate of the MFA Program at the University of Arkansas, where she taught, directed the Writers in the Schools Program, and was a Walton Fellow in Poetry. Her poems have appeared lately in The Journal, Waccamaw, Rattle, The Carolina Quarterly, and Shenandoah, which awarded her their James Boatwright Prize for Poetry. She lives in Helena, Montana.
Return to July 2013 Edition
Blood on the rug, the hardwood,
the white vinyl kitchen tile,
and I can hardly stand the gentleness
with which the dog lets me roll
him to his side, inspect his paws’ webbing.
The age-old problem: his joy
is my joy, the jaunty steps, nose
raised to wind, bearing the cold
indoors on his coat into my hands
which stroke that black gloss, proud
of the life in which he is no longer beaten
with socks full of coins. Meanwhile
the yard draws up glass after rain
like spring crocuses. History’s shrapnel―
ghosts of old inhabitants buried
with the crockery. My friend calls, my hands
full of stained red towels, darkness now
in her time zone, recalls her high school job
at the carwash next to Oakey’s
Funeral Home, where they burned the dead
on Tuesday mornings. The scent. The dog
is fine, patrolling the rooms without
a limp and licking the bright tiles
where I wiped away his blood.
[Note: the title of this poem is taken from a line in Chad Davidson and Marella Feltrin-Morris’ translation of Fabio Pusterla’s “Star, Meteor, Some Shooting Thing.”]
Corrie Williamson is a recent graduate of the MFA Program at the University of Arkansas, where she taught, directed the Writers in the Schools Program, and was a Walton Fellow in Poetry. Her poems have appeared lately in The Journal, Waccamaw, Rattle, The Carolina Quarterly, and Shenandoah, which awarded her their James Boatwright Prize for Poetry. She lives in Helena, Montana.
Return to July 2013 Edition