Sunday, February 14, 2016

Windchime by Tony Hoagland

                    Longleaf Pines at Red Dirt, Kisatchie National Forest


By Tony Hoagland

She goes out to hang the windchime 
in her nightie and her work boots. 
It’s six-thirty in the morning 
and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest 
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch, 

windchime in her left hand, 
hammer in her right, the nail 
gripped tight between her teeth 
but nothing happens next because 
she’s trying to figure out 
how to switch #1 with #3. 

She must have been standing in the kitchen, 
coffee in her hand, asleep, 
when she heard it—the wind blowing 
through the sound the windchime 
wasn’t making 
because it wasn’t there. 

No one, including me, especially anymore believes 
till death do us part, 
but I can see what I would miss in leaving— 
the way her ankles go into the work boots 
as she stands upon the ice chest; 
the problem scrunched into her forehead; 
the little kissable mouth 
with the nail in it.

“Windchime” copyright © 2003 by Tony Hoagland from What Narcissism Means to Me

1 comment:

Jonathan Chant said...

Great poem: killer last line. Nice photo, too.