At the Window

–Winslow Homer, At the Window (1872)

The windowsills need dusting.
In all the corners: curled-up spiders

and what the spiders have wrapped in silk
or partly eaten.  Upstairs waits that wasps’ nest.

This is difficult to say
but what I want most is to lean away

from this tall chair,
birdcage throne.  I don’t dare

look too long at the mist of sunlight raining down.
Time is a cyclorama.

A gauze hung straight from ceiling to floor,
curved to infinity.

I know I am posed, not here.
I know I was never here.

Naked Dance

but in blue pajamas—it is too cold
beside the mini white Christmas lights
strung on the windows all year round.

It’s three oh three,
I’ve dreamed a giant red poppy,
tall as a small tree,

noted the time in case of concurrent disaster,
and the moon glows blue on new snow.
It’s good to be lonely

at a time like this.
I wouldn’t want to wake the sleeping world
from its soft desserts.

I pull the curtains
so I don’t appear in the window all lit up
to frighten the paper boy at four.

Is this how the world sees me,
a woman awake before dawn
for no good reason?

Isn’t it good the world’s not looking
and I can be alone
in my little house?

Kathleen Kirk is the author of three poetry chapbooks and the poetry editor for Escape Into Life.  Her work appears in a variety of print and online journals, including After Hours, Leveler, Poems & Plays, and Soundzine.  She blogs about poetry, reading, and synchronicity at Wait! I Have a Blog?!