Screens

       Claire McQuerry

 

 

 

 

I make this house without you—

unwrapping saucers from tissue

paper nests and excavating

knots of cords and rags from boxes.
 

The windows flare up as screens—

the film reel's last bright seconds—

then back to dim once the car

has passed, taking some driver home 

or across town. At this hour of distortion—

the day's frayed end—I lie on my side 

of the bed and let the absence eat at me

like the thousand insects chowing down now

on the batting behind the plaster.