Her faded perfume
in this urine-yellow chair.

She sat in her rocking chair for thirty years rocking
between memories’ polarities

and ribbons blow a breeze around her
as if she is a post marking the way.

Pronouncements in the rain.
Cool air on the camera.

We live in a bowl.
The cat licks the bowl of free to leave.

It’s nearly over now and the wood
shows through the varnish.

No tension.
Eye contact without smiling.

Cellophane remains,
the flowers long dead, tied to
a post with ribbon.

In this rocking chair
next to this fire, wondering
where contentment is.

From Claire Gaskin’s collection, a bud.