Gingerbread House Lit Mag

A Maid at The New Yorker Cleans Room 3327

Pigeon feathers don’t faze me.
Nor numbers.
Isn’t three
just another name for God?
Tesla’s no God, no devil either
only a man
born in a storm.
The others cross themselves at the threshold.
Avert their eyes
so he can’t photograph their thoughts
and send them to the Martians.
Me I just give him a nod,
go about my business
and leave him to his.
They say his electricity
leaks from every socket—
that it’s important
to sweep the electrons off the floor,
tread lightly
so our shoes don’t ignite.
I press my bare hands
against the walls—
imprint the energy
across my palms.
Nobody wants to live
in a prison of numbers
but sometimes I steal enough magic
to dress all the alley cats
in coats of fire.

Lori Lamothe

Lori Lamothe’s third poetry book is Kirlian Effect (FutureCycle, 2017). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Blackbird, Goblin Fruit, Hayden’s Ferry, The Journal, Still: the Journal, Verse Daily and elsewhere. She is a writing instructor and an assistant baker. 

Artwork: Sarah Ann Loreth

This entry was published on July 31, 2018 at 12:09 am and is filed under 31 (July 2018), Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
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