Fall 2009
Table of Contents - Vol. V, No. 3
Christine Hamm
My uncle tells me not to
touch the tiny blue eggs
nested in the oleander bush
outside his front door.
His doorbell sounds
like a fading ice-cream
truck. Robins congregate
on his lawn, singing a Beatle's
album in reverse. On the front
steps I wear heavy gloves
meant for a much larger
man, but everything is breaking,
opening its yellow eyes.
Construction in the woods
again keeps me up all night.
Someone has left a baby there,
and men are trying to find it;
pitchforks, shovels, specially
trained terriers with squeals
that sound like angels crying.
The lights themselves have
a noise, a rough engine hum.
Remember when I fell into the well
when I was four? I still have the scar
on my forehead. I think of that opening
dark every time your tail lights dim,
further and further into the trees.
© Christine Hamm