Gingerbread House Lit Mag


–M. Robert-Houdin, 1843

My addled thumbs useless now
for clockwork, I dream her

in the air: bridal lilacs,
our birdsong spring,

how she’d call to me, teasing,
from the back-shop room.

Grief too has wiles, dark
and alone, a throat I hollow

with wire. The wings, the song
mechanical—See! She perches

on my fist! Tamed
to a tiny forever, in fact she’s not

quite true. Still we smile, the baby
and I, her perfect trills so soothing.

Diane Unterweger


Diane Unterweger lives in Wisconsin. Her poetry has recently appeared in Naugatuck River Review, Blast Furnace, Sugar House Review, and Verse Wisconsin.

Artwork: Christian Schloe, “The Visitor”


This entry was published on February 27, 2015 at 12:02 am and is filed under 11 (February 2015), Archive, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
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